A Little More Tequila, A Little Less Demon Hunting
by SpikeLover7
Summary: What if Sam and Dean had had Max’s childhood? AU except for obvious necessary details pulled from the first scene of the pilot. Lots of mini Sam and Dean in the form of flashbacks. 9 chapters, complete.
1. A Need to Know

**Title:** A Little More Tequila, A Little Less Demon Hunting

**Author:** JALover7

**Rating:** R for language and (non-sexual) child abuse

**Genre: **AU, angst

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Sam, Dean, John, the Impala, or anything related to Supernatural (if I did, I'd have them locked up in my closet, or in Dean's case, my bedroom). Supernatural is owned by Eric Kripke, The CW, etc. I'm merely borrowing the characters for my own fan fictional devices.

**Spoilers:** AU, so no.

**Summary: **What if Sam and Dean _had _had Max's childhood? Inspired by what would have happened if John had taken the "little more tequila, little less demon hunting" route. Title borrowed from Sam's line in "Nightmare." AU except for obvious necessary details pulled from the first scene of the pilot. Lots of mini Sam and Dean in the form of flashbacks. Multiple chapter, work in progress.

**AN: **The title and the idea for the story are taken from the following conversation between Sam and Dean in "Nightmare":

**Sam:** Well I'll tell you one thing, we're lucky we had Dad.

**Dean:** I never thought I'd hear you say _that_.

**Sam:** Well, it could have gone a whole 'nother way after Mom. A little more tequila, a little less…demon hunting…and we would've had Max's childhood. All things considered, we turned out okay. Thanks to him.

**Dean:** All things considered.

I loved the line, and I was intrigued to try and discover how things would have turned out for the Winchester brothers if their Dad had turned to alcohol instead of revenge in order to cope with Mary's death. Would they know about the existence of the supernatural? Would Sam's powers still develop? Would they grow up into different people?

Would they end up like Max?

Read on to find out…

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**A Little More Tequila, A Little Less Demon Hunting**

– – **Prologue – –**

_A Need to Know_

Dean Winchester sighed as he opened the door to the small two-bedroom apartment he shared with his younger brother Sam. _Home sweet home,_ he thought to himself as he stepped inside, closing the door tightly behind him. Exhausted from a hard day of working at the garage, and covered in a thin layer of sweat, dirt, and grease, he was ready to hop in the shower, plop down in front of the TV, and nurse an ice cold soda. As he dropped his keys down on the kitchen counter and headed toward the bathroom, he ruminated on how many guys his age (27 long years old) would probably settle down with a beer rather than a soda.

The thing was, Dean wasn't "many guys." Dean had never had a taste for alcohol. He had tried it only once, back when he was 21 and Sammy was 16…

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dean had had a bad day at work. He had never touched alcohol, had never _wanted_ to, and all he'd wanted to do that night was find a woman willing to have sex with a guy who didn't drink. They were never hard to find.

But that night, he'd found something else first: a curiosity. A need to know. A question without an answer.

And then he'd found the bottom of a beer.

Two beers.

Countless shots of every hard liquor he could think to order.

He had gotten horribly drunk.

He'd been kicked out of the bar after getting in a fight with a man over something he couldn't remember. He'd stumbled home, passing out on the kitchen at four in the morning after tripping over his feet and crashing into a chair.

He had woken up a few hours later to find himself lying in bed, staring into the worried eyes of his brother. Sam's eyes had filled with tears when he had come around enough to groan at the massive headache he had. Then suddenly, Sam had leapt out of his chair and exploded.

Sam had already out grown his brother, and he was a terrifying sight as he stood over Dean and screamed and yelled at him about how worried he had been when Dean hadn't called by the customary time of midnight to tell him he would be spending the night elsewhere. How he had stayed up all night waiting and calling him. How terrified he had been when he'd heard the crash from the kitchen and found him unconscious on the floor in a tangle of limbs and chair legs. How he had stayed up all morning sitting beside him, waiting for him to come to so he could yell at him. And as Sam had stood there, voice growing hoarse and finally cracking as a few tears fell, Dean had felt more horrible than he'd ever felt in his life. As he leaned over the bed and vomited into the trash can that he knew Sam had put there, he had been certain his vomiting was caused only in part by the alcohol.

As Dean vomited what felt like the entire contents of his stomach into the can, he had prayed that he would never have to look at Sam again. Never have to see that worried look in his eyes; never have to hear that fear in his brother's voice…never have to see his brother cry. But more than that, Dean prayed that he would never be the cause of any of that ever again.

When he had finished, Sam had wordlessly helped him out of bed, hands on his shoulders, steadying him, as he slowly led him to the bathroom and left him alone to pee. When Dean had finished, he had turned the sink on to wash the taste of vomit and stale beer out of his mouth. When he had looked in the mirror, he had been shocked by what he saw. Messy hair, pale skin, bloodshot eyes.

But what had surprised him most was the small purplish bruise that was forming under his right eye. In that instant, his mind had flashed back to dozens of faces like this. Dozens of incidents, dozens of fights…dozens of bruises…bruises on his face, his arms, his chest…bruises on Sam.

And in that instant, he had become terrified…more terrified than he had ever been in his life. He'd let out an agonized cry, tears forming in his eyes, realizing how close he had come to truly fucking things up. And as he lunged for the toilet and vomited once more, his fear had seeped away, only to be replaced by anger. Hatred. In that moment, he had hated himself. More than he had ever hated anyone or anything in his life. He loathed what he had done, what he _could _have done. Loathed that for the first time in his life, he had been stupid enough to become the one thing he had always told himself he would never become.

His father.

And when Dean had woken up hours later, pulled from the worst nightmare he had ever had _(blood everywhere…broken bones…horrible dark bruises…Sammy crying in pain…) _by Sam's gentle shaking of his shoulders, Dean had hugged his brother to him fiercely and cried for the first time in a very long time. As Sam had held on tightly to him, almost as though he was afraid that he would disappear if he didn't, Dean had begged for Sam's forgiveness. And when the tears of guilt and pain had faded to tears of anger and hate, he had sworn to his little brother that he would never do anything to hurt him…that he would never let him be afraid…that he would never, _ever,_ become their father. Sam hadn't said a word as Dean made that promise over and over again to him and to himself.

Neither of them ever mentioned what had happened that day or the promise Dean had made. But it still remained there between the two of them, unspoken, because they both knew that Dean would keep it.

And he had.

He had never broken his promise to Sam. And he had never touched alcohol again. To this day, he still wasn't entirely sure what had caused him to touch it in the first place. He had never had any desire to drink. He loathed alcohol. He hated what it did…

He was afraid of it.

And yet, part of him had wanted to know something: why did people drink it? Why did people turn to it when their lives fell apart? Why did people continue to drink it when all it seemed to cause was pain? When it led to rape, suicide, murder…and child abuse?

What could have turned John Winchester toward alcohol and away from his sons when his wife had died?

He had not gotten an answer that night, and he figured he never would.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dean pulled himself out of his thoughts, back into the present, and sighed. It had been a long day. He didn't want to think about his father now. He hadn't seen his father in nearly ten years, not since the night he had pulled Sam out of their house _(not our home) _and never looked back. Unfortunately, despite the passage of time, the distance, and the home he and Sam had finally been able to create, Dean found that he still thought about their father more than he cared to. For all he knew, his father could be long dead, lost in an abandoned alleyway, beaten to death and dumped after a drunken brawl, his liver eaten away by years of poisoning himself with booze and rage.

Part of him, the part that hated what his father had done to him and his brother, relished the idea. But another part of him, a part he had never let his father touch, a part of him that Sammy had helped to keep alive, couldn't hate his father. He wasn't sure he could ever love him, but he could also never hate him.

He couldn't remember his father ever saying a single kind word to him. But having Sammy around had kept Dean sane. It had given him a purpose in life – someone to protect, someone to live for…someone to love…and someone to love him back. Dean loved his brother more than he loved anything or anyone, and as much as Dean had taken care of his brother during those years, Sam had taken care of him in more ways than he could ever know. Sam had kept love alive in his brother, and it was this love that allowed Dean to realize that he did not hate his father; he hated what he had done to their life, what he had done to Sam and to himself. And the part of him that did not hate his father hoped that he would be able to turn his life around.

John had already lost his children, but Dean hoped that he would not lose his life as well.

Dean sighed again as he climbed into the shower, and when the first jet of hot water hit him in the chest, erasing some of the sweat and grime but none of the emotional pain and exhaustion he felt, he resigned himself to one of those long days where thoughts of his father would plague his mind until Sam came home and Dean mustered up the reason to put on his "happy and ready to face the world" mask.

As Dean showered, washing away the physical pain his day had wrought, he fell into thoughts of his father and the thirteen long years he had spent with him, raising and protecting his little brother…

_**TBC…**_


	2. Vows

**A Little More Tequila, A Little Less Demon Hunting**

– – **Chapter One – –**

_Vows_

On the day that little Sammy turned six months old, when Dean was only four, their mother died. Dean hadn't seen first hand what had happened to his mother that night, but he could remember a bit of what had happened to him, his brother, and his father…

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He woke up to a sudden loud roaring, an intense blast of heat…and his father yelling for his mother. Dean flew out of his bed and into the hallway, calling for his daddy. He could feel the fire, an intense heat like he had never felt before. He could see the bright colors of it lighting up the end of the hallway. He could hear the loud, horrible noise of flames, and he could practically taste the smoke.

Suddenly, his dad emerged from his brother's nursery, put Sammy in his arms, and told him to "take your brother outside."

Dean did what his Dad had told him to do, carrying Sam quickly and carefully out the front door. He ran down the steps and onto their lawn, looking up at the house and wondering where his daddy was. As he stood and waited, Sam started to squirm around in his arms and cry, and Dean held him close, trying to calm him by bouncing him up and down gently. When it didn't work, Dean carried Sam away from the house and toward the street, away from the noise and the heat and the light.

Suddenly, two upstairs windows blew outward as something inside the house exploded, and flames escaped out into the night, shattering glass and scattering it over the lawn where Dean had been standing mere moments ago.

Dean held on tighter to Sam as people from the neighboring houses began pouring out into the street, drawn out by the noise. A woman Dean didn't know approached him and bent down, asking him if he was okay. Dean told her his mommy and daddy were still inside, and when she reached out to take Sam from his small arms, he turned away from her, saying he wanted his mommy. She didn't try to touch them again, but she did stay next to him, waiting with them.

Fire trucks came, sirens blaring, scattering onlookers. A giant man in a yellow suit came over to them, and the woman told him their parents were still inside. As firefighters began fighting the blaze, a group running inside to find their parents, Dean didn't move from his spot. He held Sam close, fighting his own urge to join his brother in crying.

Finally, after what felt like hours to Dean, the men came out of the house, carrying his father.

His mother never made it out of the house.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After that, things were a blur. He remembered a hospital. His daddy was in a bed, many burns covering his body. He asked his dad where his mommy was, why she hadn't come out of the house, if someone had brought her out after they left. His dad told him that his mommy was gone and she was never coming back.

Dean remembered being sent to stay with the woman who had stood with them the night of the fire. Some men told him that she was a "foster mother" and that she had offered to take care of Dean and his brother while their father was healing in the hospital because they didn't have any relatives to stay with.

During those few weeks, Dean didn't leave his brother's side. He refused to play with any of the other kids in the house or to talk to anyone. He spent his time with Sam, watching him, playing with him, keeping him smiling and happy. Looking back on it now, Dean realized that, even then, he had felt that, by handing Sam to him, his father had given up his role of father to him, and he had willingly accepted the role of caretaker to his little brother. As his father healed physically, but fell apart mentally and emotionally, he stuck by Sam's side.

Dean visited his father at the hospital a few times during his stay with the woman, and his father never said a word to him, never even _looked_ at him. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, a lost and broken look on his face. Dean would stay until the woman came in and told him it was time to leave. He would leave quietly with her and go back to her house, where he would seek out his brother and try his best to make him smile and laugh.

Dean didn't hate the place. The woman was nice to them, and the kids left him and Sam alone. But Dean missed his mommy and daddy. Most nights he would cry silently to himself, watching his brother sleep silently in his crib. He would fall asleep only when the sound of Sam's slow, steady breathing finally lulled him off.

Dean didn't know what would happen when his daddy got better, and he was scared.

But eventually, his dad healed.

He was released from the hospital, and he took himself and his two sons far away from Lawrence, Kansas, and they never looked back.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For the first few months, things were rough but bearable. They stayed in a number of different motels as their dad searched for a place to live and a job. He cared for his sons – fed them, kept them clothed, gave them a roof to sleep under. But he rarely talked to them, and when he did it was in the form of yelling. Aside from going out to shop, they never left their hotel. Sam slept in a pile of blankets on the floor, and more often than not Dean found himself crawling out of his bed and onto the floor to sleep next to him, sometimes just to lie there and watch him quietly.

Dean didn't talk much either, and when he did it was usually to Sam. When he talked to his dad, it was to ask him where they were going next, or when they could go out because they hadn't eaten in awhile and Sam needed milk and diapers. Usually his father would not respond to him, and he would only go out when Sam got hungry or wet and started to cry, refusing to stop, and he couldn't handle "the damn racket."

A few months after their mother's death, and many hotels later, John taught Dean how to take care of Sam: how to feed him, change him, and bathe him. He didn't teach him how to play with him or make him laugh or know when he needed food, but Dean already knew all of that. Eventually, his father stopped doing anything, and by Dean's fifth birthday, he found himself caring for Sam all the time. He accepted the role and got very good at it. He was the only one who could make Sam smile and laugh…the only one who even _tried_ to make Sam smile and laugh.

He was the one who taught Sam to walk. A month before Sam turned one, he took his first steps and fell giggling into Dean's arms, and Dean held his brother close and beamed, and for the first time since the accident, he laughed. He looked at his daddy, laughing as he asked him if he had seen.

His father didn't move. He continued to stare at the ceiling and he didn't say a word.

And that was when Dean knew that things were not okay.

Dean missed his mommy: how she would tuck him in at night, kiss him, hold him close when he woke up crying from nightmares. He hadn't cried since his dad had taken him and Sam away from their foster house. His daddy hadn't cried, and he wanted so much to be like his daddy. When his dad didn't talk to him about what happened that night, he hadn't asked because he didn't want to upset him.

But now, Dean watched Sam toddle across the room toward his dad and bang his little fists on his bed, silently asking his daddy to look at him, to see what he had done, and Dean saw his dad turn away toward the wall and ignore him. He saw Sam look puzzled as he tried to reach out to his dad, but he was too small and his arms fell short. He fell down with a soft plop and began to cry, and Dean walked over and picked him up. He sat down on his bed and bounced Sam on his knee, causing him to start giggling. Dean kept bouncing Sam and looked toward his father's back, and he felt tears sting his eyes, and suddenly, though his dad was right there, Dean felt more than he had before that he and Sam were alone in the world and his father had died along with his mother.

When Dean put Sam to "bed" that night, he turned the light off and his father didn't protest. Dean didn't even get in his own bed that night. He crawled onto the floor next to Sam and watched him fall asleep, his little fist curled around his blanket, his thumb in his mouth. He watched as his breathing slowed, his chest gently rising and falling, breath escaping softly from his mouth.

Suddenly, Dean heard the bed creak, and he turned his head to watch his father get up from the bed. His heart rose, then quickly fell as his father simply walked to the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

He turned back to Sammy, sleeping softly, and finally, Dean began to cry. Softly at first, then louder. He tried to quiet himself down, not wanting to wake up Sam, but as his cries turned to gentle sobs, he felt Sam shift next to him and saw him open his eyes. Dean stopped crying, hoping that Sam wouldn't decide to join him. His father didn't like it when Sam cried. It made him yell.

He sniffed, and when Sam's lip trembled, Dean reached out and pulled his brother into a hug, holding him close. He felt Sam curl up next to him, his hand fisting in his shirt, holding on to him tightly, and tears fell down Dean's cheeks again. His body gently shook as he tried not to make a sound, afraid of what his dad would do if he found him crying. Thankfully, Sam did not make a sound. He simply lay there in his arms as Dean cried.

Finally, the tears slowed down and stopped, and suddenly Dean was exhausted. He continued to hold Sam close to him, afraid to let go of the only thing he had in the world. He fell asleep to the quiet sound of Sam's gentle breathing.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, Dean woke up to Sam crying loudly next to him and his stomach growling painfully. Dean went to the dresser, looking for the can of formula, and he was upset to find that the last can they had was empty. His father stirred on his bed, and told him loudly to "stop that damn crying." Dean trembled as he approached his father's bed. He told him that they had no formula…that they had no food, and he hadn't eaten in a long time. His dad got up angrily and stormed off to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Dean went over to Sam and picked him up gently. He tried everything he knew to make him quiet, and nothing worked. Dean knew it had been a long time since Sam had last eaten, feeling the effects of hunger himself.

Finally, his dad came out of the bathroom and took them out to get more formula, diapers, and some food. They took it back to their hotel, and after Dean had fed and changed Sam and put him down to wander around the room and play with the few toys Dean had been able to sneak into their cart over the past few months (his dad hardly ever noticed anything anymore), Dean sat down to eat his food. His father had barely touched what he'd gotten, and he was once again lying down, staring at the ceiling. When Dean had eaten what he wanted, he decided to ask his dad the one thing he had desperately wanted to ask him for a long time, but had been too afraid to ask before last night, when Sam had, somehow, given him the courage he needed.

"Daddy, why did Mommy die?"

Dean watched, trembling slightly, as his father sat up slowly, a look of surprise on his face.

"What?" he asked.

"Why…why did Mommy die?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly.

For a brief moment, Dean thought his father might actually answer him when he paused and didn't look away. Then, Dean's heart fell when his father turned away from him and lay back down to turn his gaze once more to the ceiling. He didn't say a word.

"Daddy?" Dean inquired quietly. "Daddy…why did Mommy-"

"Be quiet, Dean."

Dean felt tears form in his eyes. "Daddy…why won't you talk to me? Daddy? Do you hate me?" Dean started to cry softly. It was the first time he had cried in front of his father since the night his mother died.

Suddenly, his dad shot up in bed and climbed off, moving toward Dean faster than Dean had seen him move in a long time. He grabbed Dean's arms and squeezed them harshly. Dean gasped at the sudden and painful contact.

"Daddy-"

"Stop crying, Dean. You're a big boy now. Big boys don't cry."

But Dean couldn't help it. His father was grasping his arms so tightly. "Daddy, stop," Dean begged, tears flowing harder.

It only made his father hold on tighter. "Stop it!" he screamed. "Stop your crying!" He shook him hard, his hands twisting Dean's arms painfully.

"Daddy…."

Sam started to cry.

Suddenly, his dad let out a growl and shoved Dean away from him hard. Thankfully, Dean was sitting on the bed, and he feel back onto the mattress, rubbing his arms and crying quietly. His dad stalked off toward the door and put on his shoes, ignoring Sam's cries. He reached for his coat lying on the chair, and Dean got up quietly, still holding his arms close to his chest, and moved toward his own shoes, knowing that when Dad got dressed it meant they were going out.

But this time, his dad turned to him, his face contorted into a rage Dean had never seen before. He pointed his finger at him. "You stay here," he said harshly. "Don't you dare leave this room."

Dean nodded, not knowing what else to do. His dad had never left them alone before.

His father opened the door and slammed it loudly behind him.

Dean stared at the closed door, wondering what had just happened. Why was his daddy leaving them alone? Was he going to come back? Did he not want them anymore? Did he do something wrong? Why didn't his daddy love him?

He was pulled out of his thoughts by a gentle tug on his pants leg, and he looked down to see Sam tugging gently on his pants, his face red, tears pouring from his eyes. Dean felt his heart break, and he sat down hard on the floor, pulled his brother into his lap, and held him as they both cried for the mother they had lost and the father that didn't love them.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

John returned late in the morning. Dean was asleep on the floor next to Sam, and he rubbed at his eyes when the door opened and was closed loudly. It was dark in the room, and the clock on the table said 3. He looked toward the door.

"Daddy?"

" 'Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.' Do you ever shut the fuck up?"

Dean flinched when his father mimicked his voice harshly. He had never heard his father talk to him this way.

"Daddy, what's wrong?"

" 'What's wrong?' he says. What _isn't_ wrong? Everything's wrong."

Dean heard his father put something down on the dresser. He heard a loud crash, followed by a cry of "Shit! Stupid fucking chair!" He heard his father stumble toward his bed and flick the light on. Dean saw his dad sitting on the bed, and Dean was afraid when he saw a large purple bump on his face, much like the ones that were forming on Dean's arms. He was waving slowly back and forth like he was dizzy, and he was holding a bottle in his hand. He drank from the bottle, leaning his head back and finishing it. He slammed the bottle down loudly on the table between the two beds.

"What are you staring at?" he asked loudly, glaring at Dean.

Dean was afraid to speak. He didn't know what was going on, why his dad was acting so funny.

"Well, finally got you to shut up, didn't I?"

Dean watched as his father stood up, waving around as he walked clumsily toward the dresser. He opened up the bag and pulled out another bottle like the one he had just finished. He opened it up with something from the bag and took a large swig of it, downing the entire bottle without stopping. He put it down on the dresser and grabbed another one, opening it up and heading back toward his bed. He sat down and put the bottle on the table, almost knocking it over as he reached down to pull his shoe off.

Dean was scared.

"Daddy, are you okay?" he asked quietly.

His dad looked up at him, and Dean was scared at the look he saw in his eyes, a look that he could practically feel.

"Why don't you do Daddy a favor, Dean?" he asked, a fake sweetness in his voice. "Why don't you just shut the fuck up and go to sleep? Does that sound like fun?"

Dean's lip trembled, and he tried hard not to cry. He nodded slowly at his father and lay back down on the floor, trembling slightly as he turned away and closed his eyes, trying to banish the look he had seen in his father's eyes from his mind. He lay there quietly, wondering what his father was going to do. He heard more sloshing and assumed his father was still drinking from his bottle.

Finally, he heard a clunk as the bottle was put down on the table, and as the light turned off and the bed creaked, he heard his father say, "So fucking needy."

Dean tried hard not to cry as he lay there in the dark, listening to his father mumble more words he had never heard before…words he never wanted to hear again. Finally, his father started snoring loudly. Rubbing gently at his sore arms, Dean fell into a restless sleep, not knowing that this was only the first of many times that his father would act this way.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dean awoke the next morning to the sound of his father making a strange noise in the bathroom. He got up and shuffled quietly to the bathroom, leaning his head against the door and listening. He remained quiet, and finally the noise stopped. He heard the sink running and he waited.

When the door opened, he saw his father stop and look down at him. Dean hoped that he was okay now. That whatever had happened to him before, whatever had made him act the way he had, was gone.

"What the fuck are you doing up?" he slurred.

Dean flinched at the anger in his voice. What was wrong with him?

"You sounded sick, Daddy."

"Of course I'm not sick, you little shit. Go back to sleep."

Dean stood there, frozen in shock.

"Did you not hear me, Dean? I said GO BACK TO SLEEP!" he yelled.

Dean turned away quickly at the sound of his father yelling, and he heard Sam start crying.

"Stupid brat."

Suddenly, his father grabbed him by the arm and dragged him harshly back toward Sam. Dean tried to match his father's fast gait, but he stumbled. His father yanked him up off the ground by his arm, carried him over to where Sam lay, and dropped him down hard next to his brother. Dean cried out as his fell on his arm and felt pain shoot up it.

"Shut your brother up," he ordered him.

Dean tried to reach out for Sam, but it hurt to move his arm, and he whimpered and held it closer.

"SHUT HIM UP!" he yelled, and Sam only cried harder.

Without warning, Dean watched in shock as his father reached down and slapped Sam hard across the face. Dean cried out in horror as Sam started wailing and his father stood back up, chest heaving.

Suddenly, Dean felt angry. Angrier than he could ever remember feeling. He lashed out at his father with his good arm and hit him in his leg as hard as he could.

It was the first and last time he would hit his father.

John looked surprised, and Dean reached out to do it again, when suddenly he felt himself leave the ground. His dad lifted him up and tossed him on the bed, yelling at him for hitting him, calling him names he'd never heard before. Dean cried when his father hit him hard in the stomach, and he doubled over, turning away from his father. He yelled at him to shut up, to stop his crying, and he slapped him in the face. Dean only cried harder, not understanding what was happening, why his father was hurting him and yelling at him.

He turned Dean over on his stomach.

"I'll teach you a lesson, boy," he growled, and he started spanking him. Dean cried into the blanket as his father hit him, again and again, and Dean prayed to God, to whoever would listen, for it to stop.

Finally, it did. His father stopped hitting him, let go of his arm, and got off the bed, stomping toward the bathroom and slamming the door.

Dean could only lie there. He lay there until the tears finally stopped, until Sam quieted down and fell asleep. He lay in bed, breathing heavily, wincing as each breath hurt his stomach. He could feel a sting on his face and his bottom from where his father had spanked him, and a throbbing in his arm from where he had hit the floor.

Finally, the pain settled into a gentle throbbing. It hurt to move, so he didn't. He lay there in that bed for a long time, long after his father came back into the room, lay down on his bed, and turned off the light. He lay there for a long time and thought about his mother holding him gently, rocking him back to sleep. Finally, he drifted off to sleep, visions of his dad hitting his tiny, defenseless brother haunting his dreams. He awoke hours later to find his brother standing next to his bed. Sam's hand was gently hitting him on the head, and his lips were trembling, like he was about to cry. He had an imploring, sad look in his eyes, and Dean was scared to see a large red imprint of his father's hand forming on his brother's small face.

That day, he aged more than any child should ever have to. He was no longer five years old. He was the big brother, and he had an important job to do.

He pulled Sam up on the bed and held him, ignoring the pain in his chest and his arm, and he gently rocked him back and forth, like his mother used to do to him. He cried silently, his tears dropping onto Sam's shaggy hair.

"It's okay, Sammy. Everythin's gonna be okay. I'm gonna take care of you."

And that day, he vowed to make sure his brother had everything he needed. He vowed to keep his brother from ever having to cry again. He vowed to never let Sam be in the pain he was in at the moment; to never let the bruises he could see on his arms and feel on his chest ever be on his brother. To _never_ let his father touch his brother the way he had last night ever again. Dean vowed to protect his brother at all costs.

Even his own.

**_TBC…_**

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As always, reviews are very much appreciated. Expect chapter two in a few days. :-)


	3. New Words and More Questions

**A Little More Tequila, A Little Less Demon Hunting**

– – **Chapter Two – –**

_New Words and More Questions_

His father didn't come back for four days. Thankfully, the last time they had gone out they had gone to a grocery store, and they had bought some food that would last. They had no stove or microwave or fridge, so Dean settled for bread and peanut butter and junk food. He also had enough formula, diapers, and other things for Sam.

During that time, Dean watched TV and played with Sam. Every night, he would tell Sam the few stories that he could remember his mom telling him before he went to bed. He had to make a few things up, and he knew that sometimes the stories didn't make sense, but they always seemed to do the trick with Sam. When Sam fell asleep, Dean would lie down next to him and wait for his father to come back. Eventually, sleep would take hold of him and he would drift off into a fitful sleep.

Finally, one morning when Dean was eating his breakfast of Twinkies, the door slammed open and his father burst in to tell him that he had found them a place to live and that they would be moving there in a few days. Dean was surprised at his father's dirty, disheveled appearance; the dark circles under his eyes, the layer of dirt on his face, and small cuts he saw on his arm when he took his jacket off. But he didn't say anything to him.

He didn't say anything to his father for a long time.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few days later, they moved into a tiny one-bedroom apartment infested with roaches, spiders, and the occasional rat. His father slept in the sunken bed in the bedroom, and Dean and Sam slept on the hideaway bed in the sofa. Thankfully, his father bought food on a regular basis, and Dean continued to feed Sam and himself.

In the beginning, things went along all right. His father didn't yell at him, hit him, or even talk to him at all. Dean woke up every morning to find his father gone, but he would always return late at night, stumbling around and cursing on his way to his room. Dean would hear an occasional loud noise from his father's room, and he would pull the covers over his head, hoping that his father didn't come out. And for those first few months, he didn't.

About two weeks after moving in, his father came back earlier than usual, steady on his feet for the first time since that night he had hit him, and told Dean that he had a job and that he was going to be gone all day from then on.

Dean wondered how this was different from before, but he said nothing.

The days continued as they had for the first two weeks. Dean's bruises began to fade, and the pain slowly ebbed away with them. He hadn't cried the morning after his father had hit him. He had stifled his cries and tried to ignore the pain he felt in his body and in his heart. It had been hard, and a few times he had wanted to simply lie down and cry and never stop. But then he had heard Sam giggle, or heard him cry, or seen him smile, and Dean had pushed aside that desire for his little brother's sake. He was the man of the house now, and Sam was his responsibility. Eventually, the bruises faded all together.

But the pain never really disappeared.

About a week after his father got his job, he began to bring home newspapers. Dean didn't know how to read, but his mother had taught him a bit about how days and months worked. Dean looked at the first paper his father brought home, and saw something written on the top under a bunch of big, bold letters: "May 2, 1984." Suddenly, Dean remembered something his mother had told him once before she died. Dean had asked her why she was so happy, and she had told him that Sammy was 6 months old that day. Dean knew all about birthdays, and he asked his mom when that meant his brother was born. "May 2nd," she had told him.

And that's when Dean realized that Sammy was one year old. And he had missed his own fifth birthday.

Suddenly, more than anything, Dean wanted to have a party for his brother. He could remember all the fun he had had at his fourth birthday party, and he wanted Sam to have the same.

The only problem was, he didn't know how to make a party.

So he asked his father. He went to his dad's room, where he was quietly sitting on his bed, sipping on one of his drinks and staring off into space, and Dean asked his dad if they could have a party for Sammy.

His father looked at him like he was insane.

"What would we have a party for?" he asked.

"Sammy's one year old," Dean said quietly.

"You're crazy," he replied, his voice growing louder. "That's…."

Suddenly, his father got up quickly and headed toward the living room, picking up the newspaper that was sitting on the floor. He looked at the front page, and Dean watched as a look of pain flashed onto his father's face. But just as quickly as it had appeared, it passed, only to be replaced by a new look.

Anger.

Without warning, his father dropped the paper on the ground and threw the bottle he was holding across the room, and Dean watched as it hit the wall and shattered into a million pieces, scattering glass on the floor and creating a dark patch on the stained wallpaper.

Sam started to cry, and John looked down at his son, anger flashing in his eyes. He took a step toward Sam and, barely knowing what he was doing, Dean stepped between Sam and his father, causing his father to stop mid step. He glowered at his oldest son, at the look of quiet determination, and slapped him hard across the face

Dean's head swung to the side with the impact, and he turned back to his father, managing not to cry out. For what felt like an eternity, his father stood there, staring at his oldest, until, finally, he took a step back and stared Dean in the face, oblivious to the red mark already forming on his son's face.

"Have your own goddamn party if you want to," he growled at his son. "See if I give a shit."

Then he turned on his heel, stomped off toward the door, and slammed it behind him.

Sam continued to cry, and Dean pulled himself out of his frozen stance and reached down to pick up his brother. Sam continued to cry as Dean held him. Dean sat down on the couch and started bouncing Sam on his knee, knowing how much he liked that. Eventually, the sobs gave way to giggles of laughter, and Dean felt himself smile as his brother laughed happily in his arms.

That day, he gave Sam the best goddamn birthday party he could.

And when his father got home at four in the morning, half dead on his feet, and came thundering into the room threatening to hurt Sam for being the reason Mary had died, Dean stood in front of his brother, determined to keep Sam from getting hurt.

That morning, John beat his oldest son to within an inch of his life, stopping only when the alcohol running through his veins pulled him into unconsciousness.

Dean lay there gasping, staring at his father lying still on the floor next to him, until he felt himself fall into a deep sleep.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For the next few weeks, his father stayed home from work to care for him. Looking back, Dean couldn't imagine that his father had really cared for him all that much. If he had, he would have taken him straight away to the hospital. But Dean had to give him a tiny bit of credit for laying off the alcohol.

For awhile at least.

Dean slowly recovered, and within a few weeks he was back to taking care of Sam as his father went off to work. For awhile, his father went to work every day, coming back before Dean went to sleep. He continued to drink from those bottles that he kept locked away in his room. Eventually, Dean realized that it must be the bottles that were causing him to act the way he was. He remembered that his father had come back to their motel that first night drinking some of it, and it was then that he had hit him for the first time. And the second time he had hit him, he had been gone till late in the morning and had come back with a stench on him that Dean also remembered from that first night.

For a few months, though he continued to drink from the bottles, his father rarely went out at night, and when he did, he would always come back and go straight to his room, locking the door behind him.

Then one day, his father came home from work and told him that he would be going to school in a week. Dean didn't know what school was, and when his father had explained it to him, he knew he didn't want to go. Who was going to take care of Sammy when he went away? Who was going to keep him safe?

His father told him that Sam would be left in a "daycare center," and he had explained that it was a place where children went to be cared for when no one else was around to do it. Dean didn't like the idea of strange people taking care of his brother, but when his father told him that he was going and that was final, Dean had flinched at the tone in his father's voice and agreed.

So Dean went off to kindergarten, and Sam went to the daycare center. Dean was happy to discover that he liked kindergarten. There were other kids to play with and fun things to do and he didn't have to feed anyone or change any diapers. He had learned how to say his ABC's, how to count, how to tell time and what day it was, and how to read. He caught on to everything quickly, soaking up everything he could, just waiting for the day when he could teach Sam everything he was finding out about the world.

But there were sad times as well. Many of the children talked about how much their parents loved them: how they would take them places, buy them things, kiss them goodnight and hug them. They came to school and showed off their new toys or their new clothes. Dean's clothes were too small for him and were only getting smaller and thinner. His father never took him out anywhere or bought him anything. And he never hugged him, or kissed him…or told him he loved him.

Finally, one day, his dad picked him up from school, and on their way to pick up Sam from daycare, Dean worked up the courage to ask his dad if he would buy him new clothes. All the other kids had clothes that fit and looked nice, and his feet were too big for his shoes, which had worn so thin that his toe's were coming out of them. His father ignored him.

When Dean asked the kids what he should do to get his father to buy him some clothes, they told him to try a number of things: ask over and over, cry, scream, threaten not to eat. Dean wasn't sure he wanted to do any of those things. Asking questions and crying only got him yelled at and beaten, and he wasn't entirely sure his father really cared whether he ate or not. Though his father hadn't hit him in a few months, he was always afraid of doing something to make him angry and cause him to hit him again. He still had nightmares from Sam's first birthday.

Dean went a long time without trying anything.

Then one day, his teacher spoke up for him.

Dean was playing a game with some of the boys in his class when his father came into the room. Dean was surprised to see him so early. According to the clock, his dad wasn't supposed to be there for another four hours. His teacher walked over to his father, talked to him briefly, and left the room. She returned with another woman, who stayed to watch the children while his teacher and his father left. Dean turned back to his game, and when his teacher came back, his father wasn't with her.

He came back later that day to pick him up as usual, and he told him that it was high time he took him and his brother out to get some new clothes. Dean was surprised at the sudden change, but he hadn't really dwelt on it. He was just excited when his father took the two of them out that day and bought them both new clothes and a small assortment of toys, including a small television for the living room. Years later, Dean would realize what his teacher had done for him.

He would never forget it.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few years passed, and Dean learned how to read and write and do all the things that boys his age should know.

Sam was potty trained and said his first word: "Dee," which was as close to "Dean" as he could get at first. But he soon perfected it, and it became the only thing he could say for awhile.

"Hey, Sammy. Ready to go to daycare?"

"Dean."

"Hey, Sammy. Want to watch some TV?"

"Dean."

"Hey, Sammy. Ready for bed?"

"Dean, Dean, Dean!"

Dean usually took all of that to mean, "yes."

When Sam had finally said "Dean" for the first time, his father had seemed upset. When Sam learned more and more words, like "yes" and "no" and "cookie," and even sentences, like "I want cookie!" his father had seemed even more upset. Eventually, he started to go out at night more often and come home later. He began to miss work. Dean began to miss school.

Eventually, his father stopped going out all together and he lost his job. Dean had no way of getting Sam to daycare by himself, as they wouldn't take care of him if they couldn't pay. And Dean couldn't go back to school and leave Sam alone at home with their father. Though he had continued to buy them what they needed over the past three years, Dean would never leave his brother alone with him.

For about a week, Dean shuffled around the house caring for Sam and his father. Dean brought his dad food sometimes, and one day he asked him if he could go to the store. Dean couldn't find any more food in the house. They were out of soap, and there was no more of that spray they used to kill the bugs. His father took a sip from his bottle and told him to "fuck off."

Dean was nine years old when he took his five-year-old brother outside for the first time without his dad and went grocery shopping, using money that he found in a jar on top of the fridge. The woman behind the register looked at him curiously, but didn't say anything as he paid for the groceries and went home.

A few nights later, his third grade teacher called the house and asked for his father. Dean told her he was sick and couldn't come to the phone. She told him that she was worried about him. He hadn't been in school in awhile, and she was just calling to see if things were okay at home. Dean didn't tell her what was wrong with his dad – he had already threatened to hurt him if he told anyone about why he wasn't going to school. He simply told her his father wasn't feeling well and that he was taking care of her and he hung up.

Later that night, when Dean brought his father dinner, he asked him who had called. When Dean said it was his teacher, his father leapt off the bed and grabbed Dean's arms, shaking him harshly as he asked him what he had told her. Dean told him what he had said in a rush, and when he was finished his father pushed him away, causing him to fall on the floor.

Dean watched his father pace the room, mumbling to himself about "stupid nosy teachers sticking their fucking noses where the didn't fucking belong." Finally, he turned back to Dean.

"Fine. I guess you'll just have to go back to school then. Maybe that will keep the stupid bitch from sticking her nose in our business."

Dean sat silently on the ground, nodding his head in reply. Then his father stepped over him, mumbling that he was going and he'd be back later. Dean got up off the ground, rubbing his arms gently.

It had been a long time since his father had hit him.

He went to the living room to put Sammy to bed. He found him sitting on the couch, laughing at some cartoon on TV.

"Hey, Sammy. Time for bed, dude."

"Awwww. Five more minutes?" Sam asked. He stared at his brother and put that stupid look on his face – the one Dean could never say no to.

He smiled gently and replied, "Fine."

He sat down on the couch and watched the rest of the show with him. When Sam laughed at Wily E. Coyote getting a giant rock smashed in his face, Dean didn't laugh. Instead, he looked down at his arms, which he was unconsciously rubbing. He never laughed when people got hurt on TV, even when he knew it wasn't real. Because for him…it was.

Sam looked over at his brother when he didn't laugh. The kids at his daycare always laughed when Wily got blown up, or ran into a rock, or fell off a cliff. His eyes widened when he took in the marks forming on his brother's arms.

"Dean?" Sam said, his voice trembling slightly.

Dean's head shot up at the scared tone in his brother's voice, and he saw Sam staring at his arms. He realized that bruises were forming, and he put his hands over his arms, trying in vain to hide them from his brother's eyes.

"Why do your arms look all funny, Dean?" Sam asked.

Dean tried hard to think of something, anything, to tell his brother that wasn't the truth.

"I was…playing with your painting book, Sam. Must have got some of the paint on my arms. You know how messy that stuff is," he replied, referring to Sam's water color painting book.

Dean relaxed when Sam laughed and said he got it on himself sometimes, too. Sam turned his attention back to the TV, and Dean sighed gratefully.

When the show was over, Dean got Sam ready for bed, pulled out the bed from the sofa, and tucked him in.

"Goodnight, Sammy," he said, kissing him lightly on the forehead. He had done it every night since his mother died, never really knowing why, and he would continue to do it until Sam insisted he was too old for that baby stuff.

"Night, Dean," Sam said, crawling under the covers. Dean wasn't ready to go to bed yet, so he headed out of the room toward the bathroom.

"Dean?"

Dean turned back toward his brother when he called out for him quietly.

"Yeah, Sam?"

"What's wrong with Daddy?"

Suddenly, Dean realized what was wrong.

That was the first time Dean had ever heard Sam say "Daddy."

His father had been upset ever since Sam had said his first word, and it had been "Dee" and not "dada."

Dean shuddered at the realization, but quickly thought up a lie to tell Sam.

"Dad's just tired, Sammy. He needs a break from all the work he's been doing to take care of us."

"Oh. Okay," Sam said, and Dean was upset that Sam didn't look convinced.

Then Sam spoke again.

"But Dean…Daddy doesn't take care of us. You do."

Dean felt his heart clench in a mixture of gratitude and sadness. He smiled fondly at his brother and went back toward the bed, sitting down and stroking his brother's hair lightly.

"You're right, Sammy. I do. But Dad gets us money to buy food and clothes and stuff. To send you to daycare and buy a TV."

"Oh."

Dean continued to stroke Sam's hair, wondering if Sam would say something else, as he seemed to be thinking hard.

"Daddy buys us stuff?" he asked.

"You bet he does. He buys us everything we need to live a good life," Dean said, laughing bitterly inside at how stupid that sounded.

"But Daddy…Daddy doesn't talk to me. Daddy doesn't look at me. He's gone away lots."

"Exactly. He's out making money."

"But he's home lots now. And I don't go to daycare in a long time. So no more money, right?"

"Well…." Dean didn't know what to say.

"No more food? No more home?"

Dean sighed. How on earth was he going to explain this to him?

"Dad's just taking a break, Sammy. He'll be back to making money in no time. You'll see."

"Promise?" Sam asked.

Dean's heart broke. How on earth could he promise him something like that?

He avoided promising, opting instead to say, "You'll see," again.

"Ok, Dean."

Dean rubbed his brother's head quickly, messing up his bushy hair and eliciting a cry of "Hey!" from his brother.

"Go to sleep, Sam," he said, starting to get up.

"Dean!" Sam said, grabbing onto his arm. Dean flinched when his fingers wrapped around his sore arm, and he hoped Sam didn't notice the gesture. If he did, he didn't say anything.

He turned back to Sam. "Yeah?"

"I don't think Daddy likes me."

Dean tried hard not to let it show how much this comment affected him. Why on earth was his brother so inquisitive tonight?

"Why do you say that?"

"Daddy don't look at me. Don't talk to me, or play with me. And when he _do_ look at me, he always looks…."

"What, Sam?"

"…Angry…like he don't want me around."

Dean fought the sudden urge to throw something against the wall. Why was his father doing this to them? Dean had asked himself over the years why his father was treating them the way he was. Dean had seen a movie on TV once where a father hit his children, and he still didn't understand it.

Dean didn't know what to tell him. Whenever his dad looked at him, it was usually a blank stare, like he was looking through him. But Dean had caught him staring at Sam when he wasn't looking. And what he saw in his father's eyes always scared him to death. Anger…and rage. That night when his father had passed out after beating him, he remembered his father blaming Sam for their mother's death, ranting about how it was all Sam's fault that she was dead. Dean didn't know why, but he knew that his father blamed Sam, and that was why he always looked at him with anger in his eyes.

Dean still didn't know what had happened that night. But now, he was more determined than ever to find out.

"Dean?"

Sam's voice pulled him out of his thoughts, and he shook himself, trying again to come up with some kind of lie. He really hated lying to Sam, but what else could he do?

"Of course he likes you, Sam. He loves you. Loves both of us." Dean had to try hard to force out the last bit. It was the biggest lie he could possibly think of telling his brother.

"Yeah?"

"Of course. Like I said, he's just tired, dude. He'll be okay soon. Okay?"

Sam paused, and Dean put on his best "trust me" face.

"Okay," he finally agreed. He crawled back under the covers and settled in. "Night," he said quietly through a yawn.

Dean smiled. "Night, Sam." He ruffled his hair once more and got off the bed, heading for the kitchen.

"Dean?"

Dean sighed. His brother had loved talking ever since he'd learned how.

"Yeah?" he asked, turning back toward the bed.

"I love you."

Dean felt his heart melt, and he couldn't stop himself from walking back over to Sam and kissing him on the head one last time.

"I love you, too, Sammy."

He watched Sam smile at him and close his eyes, yawning softly. Dean left the room and headed to the kitchen, a book in hand, ready to wait for his father to come home.

He was now determined to ask his father that question which had plagued his mind for the past five years.

What happened to Mom?

**_TBC..._**

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Expect Chapter Three either tomorrow or the next day. Thanks to those who have reviewed so far. Keep 'em coming, please:)


	4. Promises

**A Little More Tequila, A Little Less Demon Hunting**

– – **Chapter Three – –**

_Promises_

Dean sat at the crumbling kitchen table, trying to read his book, but mostly turning pages idly, waiting for his father to get home and wondering how he would ask him the one question he knew would always send his father off the deep end. He knew asking him this question when his father was drunk was the worst idea ever, but he also knew he was more likely to get an answer from him this way. His dad was more talkative and truthful when he was drunk. Dean had heard him mumbling many times before about Mom, and it was always the same thing: "fire…ceiling…blood…." Sometimes he would murmur the same things in his sleep.

Dean just wanted to know the truth. He _had_ to know the truth. He had to know what had happened five years ago to cause his father to turn to drinking, to beat his own children, and to look at his youngest son with hate in his eyes.

But he didn't just have to know for himself; he had to know for Sam.

He didn't plan on telling Sam for a long time to come. But Sammy wanted to know why his father looked at him the way he did.

Someday, Sam would want to know the truth.

So Dean sat at the kitchen table and waited, the hours crawling by, for his father to come home.

Finally, around four in the morning, Dean heard the keys in the door, watched the knob turn, and saw his father step, or rather, stumble, inside, bottle in hand, singing a song that Dean had never heard before as he closed the door behind him.

He stopped singing when he spotted him sitting at the table. Dean stared at him with all the courage and determination he could muster.

"What the fuck are you still doing up?" his father growled.

Dean put his unread book down on the table and stared his father straight in the eye. In the end, Dean had decided that the best way to get to his father was to take the direct, abrupt approach that would hopefully unnerve him.

Breathing in slowly, breathing in all the courage he had been able to muster up, Dean let out the question in one quick breath.

"What happened to Mom?"

His question had the desired effect. His father stopped abruptly in his walk toward Dean, stumbling on his feet and grabbing onto the counter next to him to keep himself up.

"What?" he finally managed after a long silence.

"What happened to Mom? I want the truth, Dad. Just tell me what happened to Mom and I'll never ask you for a thing ever again."

A look of surprise passed over his father's face, but it was quickly replaced by a look of quiet rage that Dean could feel despite the darkness and distance. "You know better, boy. Don't test me," he said, the last sentence coming out with a growl.

Dean didn't flinch. He had to know.

"Tell me, Dad. I'm not leaving this kitchen until you do."

John looked taken aback at the forcefulness in his son's voice. Dean had never stood up to him this way before. At least not with words.

"Who do you think you are, boy? Get your ass out of this kitchen before I haul you out myself."

His father stared walking toward him again, and Dean got out of his chair and stood in front of the table. His father had the advantage, towering over him like an angry, drunken giant, and yet somehow, Dean felt himself growing taller and taller as he spoke back to his father.

"Why won't you tell me, Dad? Why won't you talk to me about it? Why do you always push me away when I ask you? Why don't you ever talk to Sam? Why don't you hold him, or play with him, or look at him? Why do you look at him the way you do? Why do you hate him? Why do you hate me? Why, Dad? What happened to Mom? Tell me. Tell me what happened, Dad. Why are so mad at Sam? Why-"

Suddenly, his father lunged at him, and Dean backed up as far as he could, but the table was behind him and he was trapped. His father grabbed him by his collar and hauled him toward the wall, slamming him harshly against it.

" 'Why, why, why? Why, Daddy, why?' his father mocked. "So many damn questions from you, always so many damn questions. Haven't I taught you to keep your fucking mouth shut?"

Dean ignored the comment. He _had _to know why his Dad was treating them like this. Why he had fallen apart just when things were getting almost normal.

"Is it because he won't call you "Daddy"?"

Dean realized he had gone too far. Way too far. His father glared daggers at him, and Dean knew that if looks could kill he'd be dead on the floor. His father let go of his collar roughly, pulled his arm back, and hit him hard across the face, harder than Dean could ever remember him hitting him, and Dean clutched his face, breathing heavily and trying hard not to cry. Tears of pain glistening in his eyes, he dared to look back up at his father.

"How dare you?" his father said, standing in front of him and panting in rage, his face blood red. "How dare you talk to me that way? I'm your father, you little shit."

Dean had struck a nerve, and, not knowing where the courage to be so bold had come from, Dean continued to pull on it. "That's it, isn't it? Ever since Sam learned how to talk. Ever since Sam learned how to say "Dean" and not "Dad." He's never said "Dad" or "Daddy" before, has he? And it makes you mad. You're mad that he'll talk to me and not you."

"Shut up."

"No. You're mad that he won't look at you, won't talk to you. Well guess what, Dad? It's no one's fault but your own."

"I said shut up."

"That's it, isn't it, Dad? Why you're so mad at Sam? Why you look at him with hate in your eyes? He doesn't know you, Dad. You've never been there for him. _Ever_. He doesn't know who you are, but it's not his fault. It's yours. Why won't you talk to him, Dad? Why won't you talk to me? Why won't you-"

Suddenly, Dean felt his feet leave the floor as his father effortlessly picked him up by his shirt collar and slammed him up against the wall. Dean struggled against his father's grip.

"You want to know why I hate your brother so much? Do you really want to know, Dean? Are you sure you want to know why she died? Do you really want to know how your precious baby brother is responsible for your mother's death?"

Anger flooded through Dean's veins, and he couldn't help the half scream that escaped him. "That's not true!"

"Of course it's true. It's all his fault. Everything's his fault."

Dean felt tears sting his eyes. His father was lying. Sam had been six months old. There was no way he had _anything_ to do with his mother dying. His Dad was just upset.

"It's all his fault, Dean. Your precious little brother is the reason that you don't have a mother."

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat. "You can't blame him, Dad. He was just a baby. He can't-"

Without warning, his father yanked him away from the wall, turned him around, and slammed him hard into the edge of the table. Dean felt the breath blow out of his body from the impact, and he gasped, trying hard to catch his breath as his back ached from the blow.

"You'll blame him, too, Dean. If you knew what happened that night…if you knew how she died…you'd blame him, too."

Dean finally got his breath back, and he gripped the edge of the table, trying to stop the racing in his heart.

"You'd blame him, too."

Dean felt anger welling up in his chest, more anger than he had ever felt in his life. He looked up, stared his father straight in the eye, and said, with as much malice as he could muster under his father's deadly gaze, "Never."

His father growled and grabbed him by his hair, yanking his head back and pulling him toward the wall again, where he let go of him and punched him hard in the stomach. Dean doubled over from the pain, gasping. His father stared at him, towering over him in rage. When Dean could breathe again, he stood up as tall as he could.

"What happened to Mom?"

His father punched him again in the same spot. Dean cringed, tears stinging his eyes, but he stood his ground.

"What happened to Mom?"

His father grabbed him by his arms and slammed him into the counter, and Dean cringed when he heard a few pans fall off and clatter noisily to the floor. But Dean couldn't stop. He had to know.

"What happened to Mom?"

His father slapped him hard across the face.

Dean flinched but remained firm. He had to break his father down.

"Tell me. Just tell me and I'll never ask you for anything ever again. I promise. Please, Dad."

"You piece of shit," he said, grabbing him by his arms and squeezing tightly, holding him against the counter. "Don't you ever-"

"Dean?"

Dean jumped at the sound of his name. Oh, God. Sam.

"Dean, what's going on?" Sam asked, and Dean saw him standing in the doorway, rubbing sleepily at his eyes.

"Go back to bed, Sam. It's okay," Dean said, trying to keep his voice from shaking and failing.

Sam looked at him, and his eyes grew wide. Dean could already feel the bruise growing on his face, and he knew that Sam could see it, too.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked, his tiny voice shaking as his eyes darted back and forth between Dean and his father.

Their father spoke first. "Nothing's wrong, Sammy. Daddy's home." He let go of Dean and moved toward Sam with his hands out, but Sam flinched and took a step back, and Dean saw his father's muscles go tense.

"It's okay, Sammy. Daddy's here," he said, taking another step toward Sam and causing Sam to take another step out of the room. Dean pushed himself away from the counter and remained one step behind his father. He was blocking the way. He couldn't get around him, couldn't get between him and Sam.

"You should sleep," Sam said in a quiet voice. "Dean says you should sleep if you're tired." Sam took a step backward for every step his father took toward him, and soon they were out in the hallway.

"I'm not tired, Sammy. I'm sad. And I'm mad," his father said, and Dean saw Sam flinch at the sudden change in his tone. His father was towering over Sam, shaking and stumbling toward him, and Dean could practically feel the rage pouring off of him in waves. His dad took another step toward Sam, and Dean almost cried when he heard Sam whimper in fear.

Suddenly, his father whirled around to face him.

"You little fuck. What have you done to him? You've made him afraid of his own father. He can't even let me near him. What have you done to my son?"

"I haven't done anything to _your _son, Dad," Dean replied, practically spitting out the word "your." "You've turned him against you all by yourself."

Without warning, his father lunged at him and punched him in the chest again, and Dean doubled over, falling on his knees to the floor, and he heard Sam yell out "No!"

John turned toward Sam when he spoke and took a step toward him, but Dean yelled out "Leave him alone!" as he pulled himself as quickly as he could to his feet.

His father turned on him again at his words and smacked him hard in the head, causing his ears to ring and his vision to go blurry. He tried to focus his vision, but his father hit him again, and Dean heard Sam scream out "Daddy!" as his knees hit the floor again.

The room got quiet as Dean kneeled on the floor, clutching his head and trying to get the room to stop spinning and his head to stop ringing. He looked toward his father to gauge his reaction. Sam had never said "Daddy" to him before. What would he do now that he had finally said it?

As his vision started to refocus, Dean watched in horror as his father stumbled toward Sam, yelling loudly. "So now you FINALLY decide to call me Daddy, huh? It took you long enough, didn't it you little shit?"

Dean saw tears swim in Sam's eyes as his father approached him, leering at him angrily and cursing. Dean saw his father stop in front of Sam, and he couldn't focus on all the names his father was calling Sam, because all he could focus on was getting between Sam and his father before his father got violent.

Dean leapt to his feet, ignoring the pain lancing through his body, and moved as quickly as he could, putting himself between Sam and his father in time to get a slap across the stomach that had been meant for Sam's face.

"Leave him alone and go to bed," Dean said as defiantly as he could.

But his father wasn't having it anymore. He grabbed Dean by the throat, clenching tightly before shoving him down the hallway, where Dean skidded on his feet and fell, crashing into the door that led to his father's room and knocking the air from his lungs yet again.

Dean gasped for air, and he couldn't move, couldn't think, could only watch in horror as his father slapped Sam across the face and his brother screeched in pain. His father slapped him again, even harder, and Sam fell to the floor against the wall, crying loudly, his eyes full of a fear that Dean never wanted to see again.

Dean tried to get up, but his head was spinning from lack of oxygen and he fell back down again, clutching his head and trying to tune out the terrified cries escaping from Sam, the sound of his father's hand hitting his little brother in the face over and over, the sound of his father cursing at Sam and yelling loudly at him about it being his fault that his mother died. Dean could hear Sam begging his father to stop between the hits. "Daddy, stop, please." "Daddy, it hurts." "Daddy." "Please." "No more, Daddy." "It hurts." Dean could hear his father yelling at Sam, blaming Sam for their mother's death, calling him names Dean had never heard and never wanted to hear again. And Dean was no longer angry, but scared. More scared than he'd ever been in his life. Scared that his father wouldn't stop, that he'd just keep hitting Sam until he stopped crying, until he was….

Dean pushed aside the thought and climbed to his feet, wavering slightly, his heart pounding in fear, and he felt tears of frustration and fear and sadness in his eyes when he almost fell again. But somehow, he pulled together the strength he needed, and he limped toward the two of them.

Dean couldn't fight the tears that fell when Sam cried, "Daddy, please," and his father yelled that Sam had no right to be sitting there asking him for anything. His father's hand turns into a fist, and Dean saw him prepare to punch Sam in the stomach, and finally Dean reached them and he threw himself between his father and his brother. His father paused, his arm pulled back, and tears fell down Dean's face as Sam cried behind him.

"Leave him alone, Dad," Dean said, his voice breaking. "Please. Just leave him alone. Hit me if you have to, but please, leave Sam alone."

Dean prepared himself for anything: to be hit in the stomach, to be thrown across the room, to do whatever it took to keep his father away from Sam. His father put his arm down and stared at Dean with a look that could make the devil flinch in fear. But Dean stood his ground, tears falling silently down his face, and he stared back at his father, praying that he'd just go away and leave them both alone forever.

Finally, his father spoke.

"If that's what you want, Dean, who am I to refuse you?"

His father grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head against the wall, and the world turned black for a moment as Dean stumbled on his feet and fell to the floor next to Sam, his father bending down with him. Dean's eyes refocused in time to see his father hit him in the stomach, and Dean fell on his side, crying in pain and pulling his legs up to his chest, trying to curl in on himself as his father yanked on his arms…

Dean couldn't remember much of what happened after that. It was an endless barrage of punches and slaps and painful crushing holds. But he could remember very vividly what his father told him then. He told him how his mother had died in Sam's nursery, pinned to the ceiling right over his crib while he slept. How the ceiling had caught fire out of nowhere, how she had burned up in front of his eyes, bleeding all over Sam's crib, her stomach torn open. How she burned away over Sam's head. How it was all Sam's fault. How Mary had died that night and Sam had lived and how much he had loved her and how he would never forgive his son for her death.

Dean didn't believe what his father was telling him, and it would be a long time before he ever did. But even when he did believe him, he would never understand how his father could blame Sam for that; how he could rationalize it as being Sam's fault. How he could blame his son for her death and raise a hand to his children. Dean would never understand what drove his father to do any of the things he did…

The rest of that night was a blur to Dean. His father finally stopped hitting him and left, slamming his bedroom door behind him. Dean lay on the floor, panting and crying in pain and sadness and fear and agony. Sam's crying finally got through the haze of pain, and Dean turned his head toward Sam, staring at the bruises forming on his brother's tiny face, the tear tracks running down his cheeks, his nose and eyes red. Dean called out for Sam, praying that he would be okay.

Sam didn't seem to hear him, and Dean sat up, crying in pain as his aching body protested. Carefully as he could, he pulled himself into a half sitting position and inched his way toward Sam, sliding down the hallway toward him.

Finally, Dean reached his brother.

"Sammy," he said, his voice breaking as he reached a shaking hand out and gently touched his brother's face.

Sam turned to him, still crying, and Dean tried hard not to throw up at the sight of his little brother's broken and bleeding face.

"Sammy…" he said, choking on the tears he was trying desperately to hold back. His brother needed him…needed him to be there for him…needed him to be strong.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean whispered, and he pulled Sam close to him and nearly cried when Sam buried his small head in Dean's chest and sobbed. Dean held him close and put one hand on his back, rubbing in small circles, trying to soothe him. He gently ran his other hand through his brother's hair.

"I'm so sorry, Sammy. God, I'm so sorry."

He held Sam close to him, held back his own tears, and let Sam cry into his chest. Dean didn't know how long he held him like that, but eventually his brother stopped shaking, stopped sobbing, stopped crying. Dean held him until Sam's breathing slowed down, and when Sam seemed calm he took his brother into the bathroom and wiped his nose, cleaned his face, cleaned up the cuts with antiseptic and tried not to cry when Sam cried at the stinging pain it caused him. He did what he could for the cuts and bruises, knowing that whatever he did it would never be enough to heal the pain that his five-year-old brother was going through.

Nothing had ever been enough for him.

When Sam had stopped crying, Dean took his brother by the hand to lead him out of the bathroom, but Sam threw himself at his side and grasped his leg, refusing to let go, so Dean reached down and picked him up, hugging him close and ignoring the grating pain in his stomach and chest. Sam placed his head on his shoulder and wrapped his small arms around him, and Dean carried him back to the living room and placed him on the bed. He tried to move Sam's hands off of him, but Sam wouldn't budge, and Dean wouldn't force him.

So Dean pulled down the covers and crawled into the bed slowly, pushing past the pain. He lay down on his back and Sam settled close to him on the bed, his hands moving from around Dean's neck and fisting instead in his shirt…just like he used to do when they were little. Dean bit back tears and wrapped his arms around Sam and held him close. He put one of his hands over both of Sam's, still fisted in his shirt, and he felt Sam let go of his shirt with one hand and put it gently into his. Dean held his brother's hand and squeezed it tightly once, but he didn't let go.

And that's how Sam finally fell asleep, curled up in his arms, his head resting on his chest, breathing gently and not letting go of Dean's hand even in his sleep.

Dean didn't sleep. He lay awake as the sun came up and rose over the trees outside the window.

He lay awake, holding his brother and letting him sleep as he ignored the pain in his own body.

He lay awake until the clock read 12:30pm and his father came out of his room and into the living room. Sam must have felt Dean tense when his father walked in, because he woke up, took one look at his father, and buried his head in Dean's chest, shaking gently as Dean held him tighter. His father spoke to them, ignoring Sam's crying and Dean's bruises and the pained look in his eldest son's eyes as he told them that he was going to find a job, that they would be going back to school next week, that they were to wear long sleeves and explain their bruises to anyone that asked as being caused by accidentally falling into the table while playing, and that if either of them ever told a soul what he had done to them he would beat them and throw them outside into the rain and the cold where they could die for all he cared.

He lay awake as Sam continued to shake in his arms long after their father had slammed the front door behind him, and Dean continued to hold him, whispering soothing words to him and gently stroking his back until he fell asleep once more.

He lay awake until he finally passed out from the pain and exhaustion, and he fell into a fitful sleep full of dreams of Sam being beaten by their father, of the two of them shivering out in the cold…of his little brother dying in his arms.

He awoke hours later to his brother shaking him and calling his name fearfully, and he pulled himself out of the dark sleep he had fallen into and sat up gently, crying out as his chest screamed in agony. Then Sam started to cry, asking why Dean hadn't woken up when he called him and asking if he was sick and if he was going to leave him like Mommy did, and Dean held his little brother close and told him that he was never, ever going to leave him.

Dean promised Sammy that he would get him out of here. When he could get a job, and when he could get together enough money and he was old enough to get them a place to live he would take him far, far away from their father and they would never look back.

He promised Sam that until then he would protect him and keep him safe and try his hardest to never let their father hurt him again.

He promised Sam that he would never leave him.

He made no promises to Sam that he himself wouldn't get beaten up, because Dean knew that he would stand between Sam and his father forever if that was what it took to keep Sam safe. The only thing that would tear Dean away from his brother was death, and as Dean held Sam close and made promises to him and told him all about the happy life they would lead when they were on their own, Dean silently begged whoever would listen that death would not come for him until Sam was far away from their father's abuse and violence; until Sam couldn't remember the way his father stared at him with hate in his eyes….

Until the only thing that Sam knew was love.

_**TBC...**_

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Review please:) And as always thanks for reading, and thanks to those who've reviewed so far. You guys are awesome. :D


	5. Nightmares

**AN: **Sorry this took me so long to get out. I got busy packing up and moving back to school. Still have to unpack, but I thought I'd get this up first. Also sorry it's so short, but the next few chapters will be longer, so hopefully it makes up. Thanks to all who have reviewed so far. You guys are AWESOME:D Hope you like it.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**A Little More Tequila, A Little Less Demon Hunting**

– – **Chapter Four – –**

_Nightmares_

The next week, Sam returned to daycare and Dean to fourth grade. The imprint of their father's hand was barely visible on Sam's face, but Dean's face was still darkly bruised. He explained to his teacher and any kids who asked him that he had been running in the kitchen when he had slipped on the tiled floor and crashed into the table. He wasn't entirely sure his teacher believed him, but she never brought it up again, so Dean assumed that things were okay. John went to Dean's teacher and Sam's daycare manager and explained that they had been gone for three weeks because their grandmother had been deathly ill, and they had been staying with her until she got better. Dean was allowed to catch up on the work he had missed, and when September rolled around, he was allowed to move on to fifth grade while Sam went to kindergarten.

Their father had been able to get a job and maintain it, though he continued to go out most nights and come home late in the morning. Sometimes he would go straight to his room. But other times, when things got really bad, he would take his anger out on Dean. Sometimes he would head straight for his eldest son, hitting him in his chest and arms and legs; places that could be easily hidden by long pants and long sleeves, which Dean always wore, even during the summer, because Dean didn't think there was ever a time when there wasn't at least one bruise on his body.

Usually, however, John would head toward Sam. He never again mentioned what he had said that night about Mary's death, but he continued to look at Sam with hate glowing in his eyes, and it made Dean sick to see the look of fear and sadness on his little brother's face when his dad came home at three in the morning, yelling and cursing and looking at Sam like he wanted nothing better than to beat him to death.

Whenever his father took a menacing, threatening step toward Sam, Dean was always there to stand in front of his brother. Sometimes he would stand there wordlessly, daring his father to hit him instead of Sam. Sometimes he would yell at his father, trying to make him angry enough to take his anger out on him instead. And sometimes, Dean would plead with his father to just leave Sam alone and hit him if he had to. He never fought with his father; never hit him. Only on the occasions when Dean couldn't keep his father away from Sam, when he was so tired and beaten that he couldn't stop his father from going after Sam and hitting him, punching him, and slapping him, causing his brother to cry out in pain, did Dean fight his father. He would fight him as hard as he could until he finally left Sam alone and moved back to him in his anger, beating him until his anger was spent and he slammed the door to his room behind him.

Dean didn't do well in school. His mind was always elsewhere, and he found it hard to concentrate. But Sam threw himself into school with vigor, and he excelled at everything he did. He absorbed knowledge like a sponge. Dean figured that it was Sam's way of coping; of trying to get his mind off of what was going on at home. Though Sam seemed happy to learn whatever he could, he didn't talk to any of the kids at school, and he didn't have any friends.

Then one day, when Dean was ten years old and Sam was six, their father came home horribly drunk; drunker than he'd been in awhile, and he lost all control and hit Dean hard in the face. When he went to school the next day, his eye was swollen shut, and his teacher was so upset that she called John to ask him if everything was okay at home. Then she said that she wanted him to come to school to meet with her.

That day, their father announced that they were moving.

It turned out to be the first of many moves to come.

They moved to a new town in a new state and a new piece of shit apartment with only one room, and Sam and Dean were once again forced to share a sofabed. Their father got a new job and Sam and Dean went to new schools. He still got drunk. Dean was still beaten. And Dean still managed to keep his father's rage focused on him and away from his little brother.

At least most of the time.

Then, rumors started to spread of trouble in the Winchester household. Small bruises on Dean's wrists. Limping. Refusal to change for gym class or to even participate. Dean's teacher asking too many questions.

They stayed there for only a few months before they moved on.

It was only the beginning. Questions always seemed to pop up, no matter how hard Dean tried to hide the fact that he was always bruised, always tired, always in pain. Teachers noticed things. They asked questions. They made phone calls. Principals called the house and wanted to arrange meetings with their father.

They moved many, many times over the years, never staying in one place for too long.

Then one particularly bad night, something happened that Dean had prayed would never happen. His father went after him…and Sam tried to fight him off. He threw himself at their father's back, screaming and yelling his eight-year-old lungs out, telling him to leave Dean alone and hitting him wherever his tiny fists could land. Before Dean could utter a sound, his father grabbed Sam off of his back, lifted him up by his arms, and Dean cringed as he heard a loud crunching noise followed by his brother's pain filled wails. Dean watched in horror as his father threw Sam clear across the room, where he crashed into a table, clutching his clearly broken arm close to him.

That night, their father took Sam to the hospital and told them that as soon as they let Sam out, they were moving again.

That day, as Sam lie on the hospital bed with a cast on his left arm and a few stitches on his cheek while their father was off signing papers, Dean told him, in the best "I'm the big brother and that means I'm the boss" voice he could manage around the tears he was fighting, to never, _ever,_ get in their father's way again. Dean held back the tears as Sam began to cry, telling him that he didn't like watching his father hit him. He didn't like watching Dean get hurt. Didn't like standing around and feeling useless…and guilty.

Dean's sadness was replaced by anger. Anger at his father for doing this to them, anger at God for letting this happen to their family…for taking his mother away. Dean told Sam that it was not his fault and he should not feel guilty about it. He told him to blame their father or God or the world for what was happening to them, but to never, _ever_, blame himself. Because that's what Dad wanted. He blamed Sam and he wanted him to blame himself. Sam asked if Dean blamed him, and Dean wanted to cry, wanted to scream, wanted to throws things around the room because how _dare _his father let this happen to them? Dean pulled Sam close to him in a hug, and as Sam cried into his shoulder, Dean told Sam over and over and over again that he did not blame him, that he could never blame him, and that he should not blame himself…that he loved him more than anything in the world. Sam held him close with his good arm, and when the tears subsided and Dean asked him if he understood, Sam nodded his head and sniffled, and Dean smiled.

But Dean couldn't help the rants that soon escaped his mouth. Couldn't help blaming his father and God and the world for messing up their lives. Couldn't help wondering if God was even really out there when he hadn't answered any of the prayers he had shot up to him every night since his mother's death, asking him to get them out of this life and somewhere safe.

Then Sam had quietly told him to have faith. Dean turned to his brother, puzzled, and asked Sam how he could have faith after everything that had happened to them. And Sam said that when Dean taught him how to pray, he prayed every night, and that his prayers had always been answered because Dean was still alive and the two of them were still together. Dean's eyes filled with tears, and Sam told him that he had to have faith even when times were rough. He told him that he can have faith in God because he has faith in Dean, and Dean has never let him down.

Dean returned to Sam's side and held him close, letting a few stray tears fall on his baby brother's head, and he held him until their dad came back and told them that they were leaving.

Over the years to come, Sam obeyed Dean's wishes and didn't get in the way of his father. But he does so unhappily, and when his father finally left, Sam did his best to patch up his brother's cuts and soothe his brother's bruises with cold compresses and looks of caring and love and by just being there as his brother fells into fitful sleeps, his breathing harsh and unsteady. On those rare occasions when Dean couldn't help lying awake all night, crying from the pain in his chest that made it so hard to breath that he couldn't sleep, Sam lay awake with him, holding his hand or telling him the stories that Dean used to tell him.

Some nights, when Sam couldn't help the anger and helplessness he felt having to watch Dean get beaten for protecting him, wishing that just once Dean would stand aside and let Sam take the brunt of their father's anger, Dean reminded him of their plan. How, in a few short years, Dean would have a job and money and be old enough to find them a place to live and they would go far, far away and never have to come back.

And finally, Dean turned thirteen and was old enough to get a job. He worked delivering newspapers part time at first, still going to school, but his grades suffered even more. By then, they had settled into a decent apartment, and for the first time since their mother's death, Sam and Dean got a room and beds of their own. Sam continued to thrive in school, wishing that he could get a job like his brother, but he was still too young.

Dean worked his way up to working in a grocery store, and though he was only allowed to work outside of school hours, he dedicated all that time to working. He failed all his classes and would refuse to go all together if his father wasn't there to yell at him and beat him and tell him to get his ass to school and pull his grades up or they would be suspicious and Sam would be sorry.

So Dean tried his hardest to balance a job and his schoolwork. When he turned 15, he got a job at a car garage, working his way through simple cleaning jobs. He paid attention to everything that went on, and he made friends with a 23 year old named Michael, one of the younger mechanics who said that Dean reminded him a lot of himself. Michael taught him everything he knew when they weren't working, and soon Dean's love for cars grew. He was a fast learner, and when he turned sixteen he dropped out of school and got a full time job in the garage, continuing to learn and doing more and more difficult tasks.

At first, his father got angry that he dropped out of school, and he beat him horribly. But eventually, when Dean continued to refuse to go back, his father gave up and figured it was for the best because now there wouldn't be anymore nosy teachers and principals butting into their home life. He continued to beat Dean, and Dean continued to wear long sleeves and pants, but people just accepted this as part of his bad boy image. Dean just didn't do shorts or short sleeves, opting instead for long sleeves, jeans, and jackets.

While working in the garage, Dean did research into places that might allow an underage teen with a younger brother to rent an apartment. But it was hard work. Dean didn't want to find a place too close to where their father was, and finding out information about illegal apartment rental on the Internet or in newspapers was certainly not going to happen. But he kept an eye out just the same.

As much as Dean wanted to get himself and Sam out of their father's house as soon as possible, Dean was too afraid of raising his brother out on the street to just leave without having somewhere to go. His father had instilled in him a deep fear of life in the streets, with his constant threats to throw them out into a world that he claimed was "far less kind than he was." When they did something to anger their father, he would tell them horror stories about how hard and painful it was to live on the streets, alone and cold and hungry. Dean was afraid of trying to raise Sam in the unknown, and so he felt he had a better chance of protecting his brother if he didn't leave their father until they had someplace to go.

His father had also instilled in him a fear of authority figures, like teachers, but most especially police, due to his threatening to kill them, hurt them, or "make them wish they'd never been born" if they ever told anyone what he did. And Dean was not afraid to admit that he was scared to death of his father: of what he did to them…or what he _could do_ to them.

So Dean continued to live with Sam under their father's roof, protecting him as best he could from the dangers that they knew, too afraid to face the unknown dangers that lurked outside their house.

Then one night, when Dean was seventeen and Sammy was still twelve, Sam asked Dean to tell him what happened to their mother. Sam said he'd been having weird dreams lately; dreams full of fire and blood and Mom screaming at someone to leave him alone and Dad sitting on the floor calling out for her. Sam seemed upset, lost in thoughts of the weird dreams he'd been having. The idea of Sam having dreams about that night freaked Dean out more than he would ever admit to Sam, because he described it as being so vivid, and it was so close to the tale that his Dad had told him. Dean was wary of telling him, but finally his brother gave him the look that he couldn't say no to, and Dean told him what his father had told him about their mother burning up over Sam's crib when he was six months old.

When Dean was done explaining, Sam asked him if he believed it, and Dean vehemently insisted that no, he didn't believe it. When Dean asked Sam the same, Sam shrugged and looked away quickly, and Dean was upset because he knew that Sam really did believe it and was just too afraid to tell him.

Dean hoped and prayed that the dreams would stop, because there was just no way they could be real, and yet Sam continued to believe that what he was seeing was real. Sam never told him he believed them, but he didn't have to. Dean knew his brother well enough.

For those next few months, Sam continued to have dreams almost nightly about their mother dying on the ceiling, and when Sam woke up panting in the middle of the night, Dean held him close and told him they were just dreams and that they weren't real. He held Sam until he finally fell asleep again.

For those next few months, neither of them slept that much. Dean's performance at work suffered, and his friend Michael, the first friend he'd ever had outside of his brother, asked him if something was wrong with him. When Dean insisted that nothing was wrong and his friend continued to push, Dean yelled at him to stay out of his business

For those next few months, Dean didn't talk to Michael, and Dean wondered if Sammy would ever have any friends.

Then one night, Sam turned thirteen, and everything fell apart.

_**TBC...**_


	6. Trust

Sorry for the cliffhanger, guys. I know I left you hanging, but hopefully this quickish update helps make up for it. Enjoy:)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**A Little More Tequila, A Little Less Demon Hunting**

– – **Chapter Five – –**

_Trust_

"No…no…Dad, stop. Stop, please. Dad, stop."

Dean awoke abruptly to the sound of Sam pleading. He shot up in bed and turned toward Sam quickly, praying that his father wasn't really in the room with Sam. He let out a sigh of relief when his father was nowhere to be seen, but his whole body tensed when he saw Sam tossing and turning in his bed, the blankets twisted around his lanky frame, a light sheen of sweat covering his face.

"Dad, stop, please. You're killing him! Dean! DEAN!"

Dean shot out of bed when his brother yelled his name, and he was at Sam's side in a heartbeat. He fell on his knees next to Sam's bed and put his hands on his shoulders, shaking him gently and calling his name. He shook him harder when he didn't respond, simply tossing harder and yelling his name louder.

"DEAN! NO!"

"Sammy! SAMMY! Wake up, Sammy. Come on, dude, it's okay. Wake up!"

Suddenly, Sam shot up in bed, and Dean got up off the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, holding Sam's shoulders gently as Sam gasped and panted, a faraway look in his eyes.

"Sam, it's okay. It was just a nightmare. It's okay."

He gently stroked his shoulders like he always did, waiting for Sam to calm down and realize that he was awake now and the nightmare was over.

But Sam didn't calm down.

He turned his head to Dean quickly, breathing more rapidly. "We have to get out of here. Now."

Dean looked at Sam in surprise, speechless.

"What…" he finally choked out. "What are you talking about?"

"We have to leave. Now. Dad's coming home, Dean, and he's mad. He's really mad. He's been drinking, and he's upset, and he's coming home, and he's…." Sam paused as he started to hyperventilate.

"Sam, it's okay. It was just a dream."

"No!" Dean was taken aback when Sam yelled. "No, it wasn't a dream, Dean. It was…it was different. So real. More real than those dreams with Mom. It's going to happen. Dad's coming home…and he's…he's going to kill you."

Dean's heart skipped a beat as Sam's eyes welled up and he continued talking quietly. "He's gonna hit you. And then he's gonna…he's gonna hurt you…choke you…and he's not gonna stop, Dean. He's not gonna stop."

Sam started sobbing, his breathing heavy. Dean pulled him into a tight hug.

There was no way this could be real. No way.

"Sammy, it's gonna be okay. It's just a dream, man."

Sam pulled his head off of Dean's chest, pushing him away. Dean was taken aback at his brother's behavior.

"It's not a dream, Dean! It's gonna happen. I don't know how to explain it to you. I just know. It was so real. I could see everything. I could…I could smell the alcohol on Dad. I could hear…I could hear you screaming …me screaming…I could feel it. You weren't…you were…you were dead. Dean…."

Dean held back the tears he felt at the pleading in his little brother's voice.

"Dean, please. I can't explain it. We have to go. You just have to trust me. Please."

Dean had never seen Sam look so lost, so broken…so afraid. Dean wasn't entirely sure he believed him. If this was true…if Sam had had some kind of…vision…what did that mean about Mom?

"Dean…."

But Dean knew he couldn't say no.

"Okay, Sammy. We'll go. Get dressed and get some clothes together. We're leaving in five minutes."

Sam didn't need to be told twice. He jumped out of bed, putting on the clothes he had taken off mere hours ago. Dean went over to the closet and pulled out a few bags, tossing them on the floor, and proceeded to get dressed. The two of them ran around the room as fast as they could, gathering anything they could see that they might need. Dean reached onto the top shelf of the closet and pulled down a jar, taking out all the money he found inside and shoving it into his pocket. He pulled out his wallet and checked to make sure that his ATM card was in there. Dad didn't know that he had a bank account. He had saved up a fair amount of money in there that should help them find a place to live. Dean still had almost 9 months left before he turned 18 and he could legally rent an apartment. He'd have to find someone who would be willing to deal with a 17 year old and his brother or they'd be out on the street. Dean didn't like the thought of the two of them out on the street. At this point, though, they couldn't stay. He couldn't stand to see his brother upset like this, and he'd give anything to make that fear and dread leave his brother's eyes and life for good.

Dean turned around when he had the money stashed away.

"Sam, are you ready?"

Sam was frozen in the middle of the room, a shirt clenched tightly in his hands, his eyes open wide. Dean heard the door to their room close quietly, and the blood froze in his veins when he looked up and saw his father standing in front of the door. Dean could tell right away that his father had never been more pissed off or more drunk in his life. His anger and drunkenness permeated the room in sickening waves, and Dean's heart leapt to his throat. Could Sam have been right?

Dean didn't know what to do, so he stood still and stared at his father, waiting to see what would happen. They were on the tenth floor of an apartment building. The only way out was through their door, and the father was currently blocking it.

Finally, their father broke the silence.

"What the hell do you boys think you're doing?"

His father knew. It was obvious. A pair of duffel bags lay on the floor, wide open and full of clothes, and Dean's pockets were bulging with the money he had stuffed in them.

Dean was at a loss.

"I…we…."

"It looks to me like you're plannin' to run away. Is that it, Dean? You plannin' to leave me? Don't think I'm treatin' you right?"

Dean thought fast, trying to come up with a plan. Maybe if he drew his father away from the door, he could get Sam to go. Dean walked slowly away from the closet and into the center of the room, stepping in front of his father and getting as close to him as possible.

Finally, he found his voice. "What do you think, Dad?" he asked, a sneer in his voice.

It had been awhile since he had talked back to his father, and it did the trick.

"Don't test me, boy," his father said, taking a step toward him, and Dean took a step back toward the closet, away from the center of the room where Sam stood, and away from the door.

"So, you and your brother were plannin' on runnin' off, huh?" he asked, taking another step toward Dean and causing Dean to take one back as well.

"What did you expect, Dad?" Dean asked. "You expect us to stick around forever? Just so you can have someone to blame…someone to hate…other than yourself?"

It had been a long time since his father had actually been able to lift Dean off the ground. Dean was still shorter than his father, but he had bulked up a bit in his teen years.

He must have touched a nerve.

Before Dean could react, his father had picked him up by his throat and slammed him up against the closet, knocking the breath out of his body as Sam cried, "No!"

His feet dangling inches above the ground, struggling in his father's grip and gasping for air, Dean tried to tell Sam to leave him, to get out of the house, but all that he could get out was a choked gasp. His father moved his face close to Dean's, and he could practically taste the alcohol on his father's breath.

"I'm gonna make you wish you'd never been born you little son of a bitch."

Dean couldn't breath. His vision was starting to blur. He clawed at his father's hands, trying to get them off of his neck, but to no avail.

He stopped kicking.

The room faded to black.

He never saw the blow coming.

Suddenly, he felt the pressure on his neck disappear, and gravity pulled him toward the ground where he fell to his knees, clutching at his throat and gasping for air. He blinked a few times, and his vision finally came back, just in time for him to watch his father pick his brother up off the ground and throw him harshly at the door. He noticed a baseball bat lying on the ground, and it made him smile inside to remember when he had bought that.

He'd never really intended to teach Sam how to play baseball with it.

Dean crawled across the floor, trying to reach the weapon, but his legs gave out, his oxygen deprived brain refusing to cooperate with him. He reached out with his arm, and he nearly cried out when his father got to it first, picking it up off the ground from where it lay, mere inches out of Dean's grasp.

Dean shot a quick glance at Sam, and Dean's heart nearly leapt out of his throat when he saw his brother sitting, unmoving, in the corner behind the door. Dean turned his gaze to his father, and he stared up at him, noticing a small welt forming on the side of his head from where Sam had undoubtedly hit him. Dean gasped for air and tried to stand up, but his father got to him first, swinging the bat with all his might at Dean's chest. Dean doubled over from the impact, and he screamed when he felt one of his ribs crack.

He lay on the floor, clutching his broken and bleeding chest and panting for air.

Sam still wasn't moving.

Dean stared up at his father.

This was it.

Dean was going to die.

And when he died, there would be no on left to protect Sam.

It was that one fleeting thought that drove him into motion.

Using strength he didn't even know he had, he pushed himself off the ground and launched himself at his father's legs, tackling him to the ground. His father landed with a loud thump, and Dean tried to ignore the pain in his chest as he fought with his father for the bat.

Unfortunately, his father was still too strong, and Dean was too weak.

His father grabbed him by his shirt collar and slammed him into the ground, straddling his hips and putting his hands once more around Dean's neck.

Dean struggled.

He kicked. He clawed at his father's hands, his arms, his face.

And then he stopped. The room faded to black again, and Dean knew he was dying.

Knew he was dead.

Knew Sam was alone in the world.

Tears sprang to Dean's eyes, and he tried to move again, tried to fight him off. But he was so tired. So very, very tired.

The last thing Dean heard before his world faded to black was his baby brother calling out his name.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Dean…Dean! Come on, Dean, wake up. Don't do this to me. Dean!"

Dean gasped, sitting up and crying out in pain at the motion. His brother's hands were on his shoulders in an instant.

"Dean, it's okay. Calm down. It's okay."

Dean panted, clutching his chest that was on fire.

"What…what happened, Sammy?" Dean asked when he regained the power to speak. Dean glanced around the room, and that was when he saw his father, sprawled face down on the carpet, a large, bleeding bruise on the back of his head.

"Dad…what happened to him?"

"I…I hit him," Sam admitted. "He was killing you, Dean. I saw it before, and I knew it was happening, and I…I couldn't let it happen," Sam said, dropping his head to gaze at the floor.

"It's okay, Sammy. It's okay."

Sam sighed, letting go of his brother's shoulders to gaze at their father's body.

"Is he…." Dean couldn't ask the question, but Sam knew what he wanted to know.

"He's not dead. He's just unconscious. He's got a steady pulse and everything. He's been out for five minutes. Since you…." This time, Sam couldn't finish his sentence, but Dean knew what he meant.

"I'm all right, Sam. Thanks to you."

Sam looked back at him and smiled a watery smile.

"You're welcome," he said.

Dean rubbed his brother's mop of hair playfully, like he did when they were younger. "Are you hurt?" he asked.

"I'm okay," Sam said, his gaze moving back to their father.

"Sammy, we've gotta get out of here," Dean said, attempting to stand up. Sam was right there to grab his arms when his legs gave way beneath him.

"I know," Sam replied. "Sit here."

Sam led him to the closest bed, and Dean sat down, trying to catch his breath as Sam gathered their things off of the floor, stuffing them into the duffel bags.

Dean stared at his father, unconscious on the floor of the bedroom.

Should they just leave him here? What would happen if they did? Would police come? Would they ask questions? Dean didn't want the police involved in this. His father had succeeded in driving an irrational fear of police into his head with his constant threats that if they ever found out about what went on in their house there would be hell to pay.

As Sam started stuffing more clothes into their bags, Dean noticed the bat on the floor, and he realized that it would be too easy. One good hit, one well-planned hit, and their father would be gone from their lives forever. Dean reached down and picked up the bat, feeling the weight of it in his hands.

Then he heard Sam call his name.

"Dean?"

Dean turned to his little brother and stood up off the bed, bat in his hands.

He had to do this. He had to do whatever it took to protect them. His father had never liked them…never loved them…never treated them like his children. He deserved to be punished for it.

"Dean, no."

Dean turned his gaze back toward their father.

"I have to do it, Sammy. We'll never be safe if I don't."

"No. You don't have to do anything, Dean. We can leave. We can go far away and never look back. Remember the plan, Dean?"

"The plan."

"Yeah, the plan. Remember? You always used to tell me, whenever things were really bad, that we would get away some day, that we would just leave and never look back. We don't have to kill him. We can go far away. To another country if we have to."

"But he'll always be out there, Sam."

"I know," Sam said, and Dean turned when he felt his brother standing at his side. Even at thirteen, his brother was quickly catching up to his height. Dean tensed when Sam put his hand on his arm. "But Dean…he's not worth it. If you kill him…you're no better than he is."

Dean felt a tear fall down his cheek. His brother was right. But what would it mean for them? Dean knew, felt in his heart, that if they left, their father would never stop looking for them. They would never really be safe.

Sam would never really be safe.

And that's what Dean had wanted all along, wasn't it? For his brother to be safe?

"I have to, Sam. For us. For you. So you can be safe. So you can sleep at night knowing that there's nobody out there who wants to find you and hurt you. So you can know that there are only people that love you. I'd do anything for you."

"Then let him live, Dean. I don't want you to do that to yourself. I know you don't like him, but I know you'd feel guilty if you killed him. I know you'd feel like you were just like him. And I don't want you to do that to yourself, Dean. Not for anything. Certainly not for me. Don't do it. We'll leave, we'll go far away, and we'll never look back. Just don't do it, Dean….For me."

Dean felt his eyes well up with tears.

The bat dropped from his hands, landing with a loud _thunk_ on the hardwood floor.

Dean was never really good at denying his brother what he wanted.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah," Dean said, pushing back his tears. "You're right. Let's just get out of here, okay?"

Sam squeezed his arm before letting go. He went back toward their bags, zipped them up, and slung them over his shoulder before heading back to Dean and putting his free arm under his brother's arms.

"Let's get the hell out of here."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That night, Sam helped Dean out of the house and into the street. Sam wanted to bring Dean to the hospital. His breathing was shallow and he could tell that something was wrong in his chest from the way he kept clutching at it. But Dean refused, and he told Sam where to take them.

They arrived at Michael's house at four in the morning. Dean wasn't sure what his friend would do when he found them. They had been on harsh terms, and Dean was sorry for the words he had exchanged with him.

But thankfully, when Michael arrived at the door to find them standing there, he didn't say a word to him. He ushered them inside and went to work bandaging Dean's chest.

The next morning, Dean awoke from his place on Michael's bed, which he had given up to him despite Dean's protests, and found Sam sitting in a chair watching him intently. Michael arrived a few minutes later with a mug of cocoa in his hand. Dean had apologized to him for what had happened. He told him why he had pushed him away, why he hadn't wanted to talk to him. Michael had understood. He said that he had been the victim of occasional beatings when he was a child and he had noticed the symptoms in Dean and had just wanted to help him. They made up quickly, and Michael was kind enough to offer them a place to stay with him until Dean felt up to moving on with his life.

The next night, Dean woke up with a high fever, his body covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and his groans of pain awoke Sam, who was asleep next to him on the floor. Sam got Michael, and the two of them took Dean, who was too tired and weak to refuse, to a hospital.

The infection had been caused by the cracked rib, and after a few restless nights for Dean and those who watched over him, the fever went down and the infection healed. Dean's ribs were bandaged, and soon Dean was released and Michael took him back to his place, where Dean spent the next few weeks healing up and reading some of Michael's car manuals and magazines and Sam spent his time reading some books that Michael got him from the library.

Eventually, Dean healed, and he worried about where they were going to live. It was early July, and Dean still had half a year before he'd be old enough to legally rent an apartment. Michael told him that he would gladly let the two of them stay with him until Dean could find a place to live, and Dean was glad for the offer, but he felt guilty about taking advantage of Michael. Michael assured him that it was fine with him, but when Dean continued to argue, eventually they struck a truce in which Dean would be the unofficial "maid" in exchange for room and board, as Michael was "shit at housework." Sam laughed at the idea of Dean being a maid, and Dean had to admit the idea was a bit funny. But nobody ever made him wear an apron (though Sam tried a few times), and Dean was already used to cleaning house and cooking meals anyway. It felt good to repay Michael for his kindness.

Then one day, Michael came home early, and their worst fears were realized. John had been at the garage that day, asking around for them. Dean had no idea how his father had found out, but he didn't spend a lot of time dwelling on it. Sam and Dean packed up their meager possessions, and Dean grudgingly took what Michael offered them, which included an assortment of food and other necessities. When Michael handed him a wad of cash, Dean refused to take it, saying that Michael had given them more than enough already. But Michael insisted, saying that they needed it more than he did, and when he reminded him that Sam needed the money, too, Dean put aside his pride and took it from him.

The last thing he offered them before they left the house was an address. A place in New York City – an apartment building run by a good buddy of his. He promised them that when they got there, his buddy would be able to get them a cheap place to rent even though Dean was underage. Dean's eyes watered when he told them this, and Michael just smiled and pulled him into a tight hug.

"You guys just be sure to take care of yourselves, okay? And call me once in awhile. Let me know how you are?"

Dean promised him that they would. Then Sam gave Michael a quick hug and thanked him.

Hours later, when they found themselves on a train headed for New York, as Sam slept peacefully on the seat next to him, Dean prayed that Michael would live a long and happy life, marry himself a wonderful woman, have lots of fat grandchildren, and own the best car in the world (Dean had fallen in love with a '67 Chevy Impala he had worked on one day in the garage). Michael was the first real glimpse Dean had ever had of the goodness that existed in the world, outside of his brother, and he would always be thankful for that.

Dean didn't know what lay ahead of them in New York.

Sam's "vision" had come true. Whatever Sam had dreamed that night had happened. He hadn't had any weird dreams since that night, but Dean felt, somehow, that it would not be the last.

But try as he might, Dean could still not accept what had happened to his mother. Dean had had a glimpse of the evil that existed in the people of the world. The thought that there could be more evil out there, an even more dangerous evil, made him sick and afraid and sad. He just couldn't believe, _refused to believe_, that such an evil could ever exist.

Dean heard a loud snore next to him, and he turned toward his brother, a small smile on his face at the peaceful look he found there.

Dean leaned his head back against the seat and sighed.

He refused to believe in that kind of evil. Refused to accept it. There was so much evil in the world already.

But as Dean looked back toward his brother, he smiled at the thought that there was also a bit of goodness and love to be had as well.

Dean fell into the first restful sleep he had had since he was four years old. He dreamt of his mother and his father and his little tiny brother as they had been before the accident.

And when he awoke a few hours later to find Sam still fast asleep next to him, Dean felt really and truly loved.

**_TBC..._**


	7. Truth

**AN: **Sorry it took me so long to get this out. Getting back into the swing of things at school is hard. I've been here a week and my roommate still hasn't moved in, so none of my stuff is all that organized, I don't know how we are going to set it up, and I don't have any pictures up so it feels really empty and sad. Should work itself out soon though. Just wanted to thank everyone who has been kind enough to review so far. You guys rock and your comments and compliments are very much appreciated. Also, expect one more chapter and an epilogue after this one. Thanks again guys:)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**A Little More Tequila, A Little Less Demon Hunting**

– – **Chapter Six – –**

_Truth_

When the brothers arrived in New York City, they were amazed by the sheer size of the place. They had lived in a few cities throughout their lives, but none quite as intimidating as New York. Dean could tell that this would be a good place for them. It would be easy to blend in, fade into the background. It was a place where they could disappear; a place where their father would have a hard time finding them.

They found the apartment building that Michael had sent them to, and they met his friend Alex, who assured them that friends of Michael's were friends of his. He told them that they could rent an empty apartment on the third floor, and that he would do his best to make sure they could afford to stay there. Dean was hesitant about letting Alex give him a cut in his rent for awhile, but they finally reached an agreement. Dean would pay half the rent until he could start paying the full rent, and then Dean would start paying him back the rest a little bit at a time until they were even. Dean didn't want to take advantage, but he didn't have much of a choice, and he felt good knowing that he would pay Alex back in time for his kindness.

The apartment wasn't as bad as most of the apartments in New York. It was infested with bugs nearly all year round, but occasional exterminations got rid of them for a time. There were no rats, there was usually clean hot water, and the walls were crumbling in a few places, but overall it was the most amazing place the brothers had ever lived, and they were incredibly grateful toward Michael and Alex for helping them get it.

They got settled in, and soon Dean found a job in a garage nearby. He was able to get Sam enrolled in the local public school, and Sam was happy to be going back. Dean was hesitant at first to allow him to walk the ten blocks to school: New York was a dangerous city, Dad might find them someday…. But Sam eventually convinced him that it wasn't worth the money to get a cab to drive him. After Sam gave him the patented "you can't say 'no' to me" look, Dean agreed to let him walk.

The first thing that Dean bought was a pair of cell phones. When he found out that cell phones were not allowed in school, he made sure that Sam knew to always keep it buried deep inside his backpack with the sound off. Dean felt better about letting Sam go when he knew he had his cell phone on hand at all times. He didn't like leaving Sam alone when he went to work, but Alex agreed to keep an eye on him after school while Dean was working.

Dean worked six days a week for as many hours as he could. He always tried to get home before Sam went to sleep, but most nights Sam made dinner for himself, storing the extra food in the fridge for when Dean came home. When Dean got back, he would make sure Sam was safe and sound in his bed before showering, eating his own dinner, and falling asleep in his own bed. For the first time since they were young kids, the two brothers had separate rooms.

Sam, meanwhile, threw himself into his schoolwork with an even greater vigor than before, and when he entered high school and brought home A after A to show his brother, Dean knew that Sam would be able to do great things after high school if they could ever get together the money.

One day, Dean came home from his job at the garage, and Sam told him that he had gotten a part-time job after school in a grocery store down the street. Dean wondered if the job would interfere with his grades. Dean had never liked school, never really felt like he belonged there. But he knew that Sam liked it, and that he was good at learning and retaining information. He didn't want anything getting in the way of the things he could do with a good education.

But Sam reassured him that he wouldn't let it get in the way of his grades. He wanted to work so that he could help Dean support them. Dean told him he didn't need Sam to help him, that he could do it just fine on his own. That he would save up some money to help Sam go to college when he graduated from high school.

But Sam wouldn't take no for an answer, and so he started working after school and on weekends at the grocery store. Dean felt guilty. He was the big brother after all. He was supposed to support Sam. But after awhile, when Sam continued to bring home A's and hold down his job, Dean realized that Sam could handle it just fine. He brought home enough money to start helping Dean pay the rent, and eventually they were able to pay Alex back for the rent cuts he had given them.

Then Dean made sure that all the money Sam made was put toward getting him to college. Sam told him more than once, almost everyday, about how much he wanted to go, and Dean finally told him that he was not going to let him help with the rent. All the money Sam made was for Sam to use how he wanted, and Sam wanted to go to college.

Sam started taking a few courses at NYU when he graduated from high school, and he continued to work full time at the grocery store. He told Dean that he didn't want to move away anywhere, that he wanted to stay with him, and Dean had been relieved to hear that. If Sam wanted to go away, Dean wouldn't have been able to stop him. But Sam told him that he wasn't ready to move away yet. So the two brothers continued to live together, Dean working at his garage and Sam working at the grocery store and studying pre-law.

Then one night, when Sam was twenty, he had another vision.

Dean got home from the garage late at night. He was exhausted, and all he wanted to do was collapse in bed and sleep for a few days. But as he walked past Sam's room toward the bathroom to take a quick shower, he heard a soft moaning sound coming from inside, and protests of "No. God no. Please."

Dean flung open the door to his brother's room to find Sam tossing and turning in bed, wrapped up in his sheets, his arms flailing and his face covered in a bright sheen of sweat. Dean ran toward his brother's side and shook him, gently at first then harder when he didn't respond. He called his name a few times, yelled it, and finally Sam jerked awake, flying up in his bed and panting. Dean was going to ask him what was wrong when Sam blurted out "Someone's in trouble. Someone's gonna die."

Dean felt his heart skip a few beats. He stammered out a few words of nonsense before he got himself under control.

"What are you talking about?"

"I saw it, Dean. A woman. A woman's gonna die. In the park. Central Park. She…some thing…I know where it is. Where she's gonna be. We have to do something."

Dean was at a loss. This couldn't possibly be real. There was no way. It was just a stupid nightmare. He told Sam as much, but Sam wouldn't listen to him.

"It's real, Dean. I saw it happen. I…I felt it happen. It was so real. Like…like the night we left Dad's place."

"Sam…it's not real. It's just a nightmare. Nobody's gonna die."

"Dean! Please! We have to do something. We don't…I don't think there's much time. We have to help her."

Sam started to get out of the bed, but Dean was faster. He grabbed Sam's arms and pulled him back down to the bed. "We're not going anywhere."

Sam stared at his brother. "We have to. She's gonna die if we don't do something!"

"Sam, it's not real! None of it's real! These nightmares…that's all they are. They're just dreams."

"They don't feel like 'just dreams.' I know 'just dreams,' Dean. These aren't dreams. They're like…visions or something. Visions of the future."

"Sam-"

"Then how do you explain that night, Dean? How do you explain Dad coming home and…and…he almost killed you, Dean. And I saw it happen. And then it was happening for real. I saw it. I'm not crazy. You almost died that night. You might have…you really might have…." Sam couldn't say the word, but Dean knew what he was talking about.

Sam continued. "But I stopped it, Dean. I stopped it. These…these visions…I don't know why I have them, but…Dean, please. We have to help her. We can go out there and get her, make her go home before…before that _thing_ gets her."

"What…what _thing_, Sam? What are you talking about?"

"It wasn't a person. It was…it was something else. I don't know. It looked…like a wolf, or a dog or something. But it walked like a man. It looked…like maybe it was a werewolf or something."

Dean felt his heart drop down into his stomach. This was crazy. There was no way in hell a _werewolf_ was lurking in Central Park waiting to chomp down on some innocent girl. No way. Werewolves weren't real. No way.

"Sam…this is crazy."

Dean watched Sam's face fall.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

"Sam…_werewolves,_ Sam. Come on. It was just a dream."

"Mom died on the ceiling, Dean. She burned away on the ceiling over my crib, pinned down by something that ate away at her with fire. Mom didn't just die, Dean. Something killed her that night, and it sure as hell wasn't human."

Dean felt an anger grow inside him. "Don't bring Mom into this, Sam. Dad…Dad lied to us. She didn't die like that. He was drunk. He's been drunk all his life. We can't trust anything he tells us."

"But this is real, Dean. It's really going to happen. We have to do something about it."

Dean didn't know what to think anymore. If this was real, if Sam really could see the future…did Mom really die that way? Did something…supernatural – something _evil_ – kill their mother?

"No, Sam," Dean finally replied. "No."

"What?"

"It's not real. It's just a nightmare. Just go back to sleep and things will be better in the morning."

Dean let go of Sam's arms and got off the bed, backing away toward the door.

And suddenly, Sam was staring at him in anger. It was the first time Dean had ever seen that look on Sam's face directed at him. Dean's muscles tensed when he saw Sam get out of the bed, and Dean moved closer toward the door, knowing what his brother would want.

"Then I'm going. By myself."

Dean found himself growing angry. "Don't be stupid, Sam. I'm not letting you go out to Central Park at midnight."

"You can't stop me," Sam said with determination, and he took a step toward Dean.

"Sam, you aren't thinking straight. This nightmare-"

"It wasn't a nightmare!"

"-is messing with your brain."

"Dean…you can't stop me. I can make my own decisions."

"I'm not letting you leave, Sammy."

"Don't call me 'Sammy'."

It wasn't the first time Sam had said it. But it was the first time when he had said it with anger in his voice.

"Sam, I'm not letting you leave this room."

"Try and stop me," Sam said, and he took a step toward Dean. Dean didn't flinch, didn't move.

"What are you gonna do, Sam? What could you possibly do to help her even if this was real? You think you're just gonna walk into Central Park and chase off a werewolf with your good looks?"

"No." Sam turned around and headed toward his closet, reaching up to the shelf on top, and he pulled down a box. "I've got this."

And he opened the box and pulled out a gun.

Dean was surprised. "Sam, when did you get a gun?"

"When I turned eighteen."

"Sam…I didn't-"

"Don't act like you're surprised, Dean. I know you have one stashed away in your closet. You've had it since we got here. You had Alex get it for you when we moved in."

"Sam…"

"You don't have to protect me anymore, Dean. I can protect myself. It's not your job."

"It _is _my job, Sam. I'm your big brother. It'll always be my job to protect you."

Sam didn't respond. For a second he looked like he wanted to, but he didn't. Instead he turned back to his closet and threw on some pants over his shorts and a jacket over his T-shirt. He stuck the gun in his jacket pocket, and he turned back to Dean.

"Move."

"No, Sam."

"Why won't you let me go, Dean?"

"You aren't thinking clearly. You're being ridiculous-"

"Is it because you don't believe me, or is it because you do and you're afraid about what will happen to me if I'm right?

Dean paused, mouth agape. How did he do that? How could he always tell what he was thinking? Because the truth was, Dean was scared. He was afraid about what would happen if he really _was_ wrong about Sam's dream. Dean was scared to death that he could be wrong about this.

"Sam, I'm not letting you leave."

"Get the hell out of my way!"

"Yelling at me isn't going to help, Sam," Dean answered, his temper flaring, his body shaking slightly.

Suddenly, Sam lunged for him. Dean never saw it coming. Sam grabbed him by the arms and pushed him aside, but not hard. Dean managed to keep his footing as Sam walked out the doorway and headed down the hallway.

"Sam!" Dean yelled. There was no way this was happening. He couldn't let Sam leave. He had to do something, but he didn't know what. So he did what he was good at. He flew down the hallway and managed to get around Sam, stepping in front of him before he could get to the door. He stood his ground between Sam and the door that led to the danger and evil and sadness that the world outside represented.

"Sam, don't."

Dean didn't see it coming. One minute his brother was staring at him, his face a mixture of pain and anger and sadness. The next, Sam's fist was connecting with his face.

Dean felt the blow knock his head to the side. He reached up, clutching at his face, and he winced against the tears of pain he felt welling up. The blow was like nothing he had ever felt before, and it hurt like nothing else ever had.

But he forgave Sam the instant it happened.

Dean turned back to his brother, and he felt his heart break at the look of complete and utter horror on his face. He heard Sam start panting. "Oh god…Dean…oh god." Sam put his hand to his mouth, tears forming in his eyes as he looked at the ground, at the wall, at anything other than Dean.

"Sam, it's okay," Dean said, pushing himself away from the door.

"Dean…I'm…god, Dean, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," Dean said, moving closer to his brother.

Tears started falling down Sam's face, and he turned his gaze back to Dean.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice breaking, and he covered his face with his hands and turned away, his body trembling.

"Sammy…." Dean reached out and put his hand on his brother's shoulder, and, gently, he turned Sam around and put his arms around him.

Sam's breath hitched in his throat, and he wrapped his arms around Dean, holding him closer as he started crying.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

"It's okay, Sammy. It's okay."

Eventually, Sam's legs gave out, and Dean held on tight as Sam pulled them to the ground. He wrapped his arms tighter around him, running his hand gently along his back as Sam continued to cry, muttering over and over how sorry he was, and he continued to reassure him that it was okay, that everything was going to be fine.

Soon, Sam stopped crying, and Dean was able to urge him up. He helped Sam back to his room and into bed. Sam obeyed, pulling the covers up close and curling up tightly, staring at him.

Dean could imagine what Sam was going through. He himself had had nightmares where he lost all control over his anger and beat his little brother, becoming the one person he'd always feared of becoming, and doing the one thing he'd always been most afraid of doing. The feelings of guilt and pain these nightmares brought was powerful enough to force him awake, tears he had unconsciously shed drying on his cheeks.

Dean got a chair from the other side of Sam's room, brought it next to the bed, and sat down. Sam stared at him for a long time, almost as if he was afraid that if he closed his eyes Dean would disappear. Eventually, Sam couldn't keep his eyes open anymore, and he drifted off to sleep.

Dean sat in the chair next to his brother all night. He fell asleep only once, jerking awake and kicking himself, but he calmed down when he noticed Sam still sleeping quietly.

He stayed next to Sam until he woke up and got ready to go to work. After Sam left, Dean took a shower and headed off to the garage. On his way, he passed by a newspaper stand, and a headline caught his eye:

BODY OF A WOMAN FOUND MUTILATED IN CENTRAL PARK

He bought the paper, his hands shaking as he handed the man the money for it. Dean read the first three sentences before the paper slipped out of his hands and the world as he knew it fell apart.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dean didn't go to work that day. He went back to his apartment and threw up his breakfast and called in sick. He crawled into bed and lay there all day, staring at the ceiling, getting up only once to throw up again in his trash can.

That's how Sam found him when he came home at six that evening. Silent, unmoving, staring at the ceiling.

Dean still felt guilty about that night. Not guilty for not letting Sam leave – he could never regret that – but guilty for not believing him. For not trying to do something himself. For just letting it happen when Sam had told him it would.

The next morning, Dean pulled out a phonebook and called the first psychic he could find that sounded remotely legit. He visited a woman who appeared to be about the same age as his father, and that day she told him everything she knew about the world of the supernatural. She gave him a few books and he went home and read them all.

He went back to work a few days later, his mind swimming with the information he had just taken in.

He believed it all.

When he got home after his first day back at work, he told Sam what he had learned, and Sam didn't doubt him. He listened quietly as Dean told him everything, and when Dean told him that he was sorry he had ever doubted him, Sam reassured him that it was okay; that Dean, like himself, was afraid to admit that what Sam saw was the truth, because then it would have meant admitting that what had happened to their mother was the truth, and the truth was too hard to handle.

That night, Dean promised Sam that if he ever had any more visions, he would do his best to see that they never came true.

As the years went by, Sam had two more visions in the form of dreams. The first vision he had dealt with something Dean thought the police could handle, and he called them from a pay phone to tell them that a woman was going to be raped and murdered by a man outside of a place called Mike's Bar sometime around four in the morning.

The next day, Sam and Dean smiled when the headline on the paper read: ANONYMOUS TIP LEADS TO THE CAPTURE OF A WANTED MURDERER.

The next time Sam had a vision, a woman was going to be attacked by what looked to be the spirit of a long dead man. This was the first time Dean had handled something like this, and Sam wanted to go with him, but Dean refused point blank to let him come. He went to the woman's home, a newly purchased shotgun hidden inside his shirt loaded with rock salt. The psychic had told him that rock salt could be used to repel spirits, and Dean arrived at the house, his nerves and muscles tense, scared of what he might find inside the house.

That night, he found out beyond the shadow of a doubt that ghosts were real.

He paused when he saw the spirit, who was pinning the woman against a wall, choking her to death. He pulled himself together in time to shoot the spirit with the rock salt before it could kill her, and the woman fell to the ground panting. She thanked him over and over for saving her, and he told her, his hands and voice shaking, that it wasn't over, and that it would come back unless he found it's body and salted and burned it. All of this was so new to him, but Dean easily fell into the role of protector, promising himself that he would protect this woman, this _stranger_, as best as he could.

She told him that she knew who it was. She told him it was her old ex-boyfriend, and she knew where he had been buried. Dean went to the cemetery that night after buying a shovel, salt, gasoline, and matches, and he started to dig up the man's grave. After a long time of hard digging, Dean hit wood, and he broke the coffin open. He got out when the body was exposed, his stomach lurching from the smell and the sight of rotting flesh. He threw salt over the body, and when he started pouring on the gasoline, he realized that, as new as this was to him, he felt himself easily falling into this role as well, almost as though he had been meant to do stuff like this all along.

He lit the match, and he was just about to throw it in the hole when the man's spirit appeared before him, throwing itself at him. Dean felt himself grow cold and weak, and he threw his arm out, reaching for the shotgun he had thrown on the ground.

It lay just out of reach.

Dean felt himself grow colder and weaker, and suddenly he heard a shot ring out, and the spirit vanished. Dean sat up, panting, and he looked around, but he didn't see anyone. Thinking fast, Dean worked past the pain in his lungs, sat up, and grabbed the matches. He lit one, and just when he felt the spirit moving toward him once more, he threw it with all his might into the hole.

He sat back and watched as the spirit burned away before his eyes, and he didn't get up for a long time.

Finally, he pulled himself to his feet and went back to the woman's home. He told her that the spirit was gone, and that she would be safe. She wanted to thank him, to do something to repay him, but he insisted that he didn't want anything. He left that night and headed home. Sam was pacing about the kitchen, and when he came in, Sam pulled Dean into a fierce hug, telling him how worried he had been.

That night, Dean yelled at Sam. He told him that he knew it was him who had been there that night. He knew he must have been following him since he left the apartment. He knew he had gone against his wishes. Dean yelled at Sam more than he had ever yelled at Sam before.

But Sam stood his ground, reminding him that he had saved his life, asking what he thought it would do to him if Dean had died that night.

The night ended with Dean fighting back tears as Sam hugged him close, telling him that he didn't want him to go alone next time.

Sam ended up sleeping on Dean's floor that night. He didn't want to leave Dean's side, scared about what had happened that night. Dean climbed into bed and watched his brother fall gently off to sleep, and just as Dean was drifting off, Sam woke him up and made him promise that the next time he had a vision, Dean would let him go with him to help whoever was in need.

Dean hadn't promised, and he could tell that Sam was upset, but eventually, Sam drifted off into a fitful sleep, and Dean prayed that Sam would never ask him that again.

Thankfully, Sam had not had a vision since that night. Dean hadn't hunted anything since that night either, and he hoped that, the next time Sam had a vision, if he even had another one, it would be something the police could handle.

As much as he wanted to help people, he wanted to help Sam more, and the best way Dean knew to help him was to keep him away from the dangers and evils of the world – the things that went bump in the night, the insanity of human kind...and their father.

_**TBC...**_


	8. Love

**A Little More Tequila, A Little Less Demon Hunting**

– – **Chapter Seven – –**

_Love_

In the present, Dean groaned and turned off the shower. He may have been clean of dirt and grime and sweat, but he didn't feel clean at all.

He got out of the shower, trying to wipe his mind of the past moments he had just dwelt on. He hated thinking about the past, the majority of it at least, because it always left him feeling angry, sad, frustrated, scared, and exhausted.

He dried off, wrapped the towel around his waist, and headed toward his room to change. He pulled on a comfortable pair of boxers and a T-shirt and headed toward the kitchen, his mind still reeling with images from the past.

Most days, Dean was able to keep his mind off of the bad times in his past and focus on the good. Years of living alone with Sam had helped. He had to keep up a front, had to make sure that Sam thought everything was okay with him, even on those days when the weight of the past threatened to crush him.

Dean knew he hid behind masks. He knew he used sarcasm, jokes, and attitude to hide how he really felt.

To hide the pain.

But he did it because he had to. He did it for Sam. Because Sam needed him; needed him to be the big brother, the strong one, the ever present, ever constant, ever flowing source of everything he needed. He needed Dean to be happy. Because if Sam was to ever have any sense of normalcy, any sense of _happiness_ in his life, Dean would need to be happy with him.

So on those occasions when he couldn't be happy – when the past, present, and future brought him down – Dean put on his mask. And when the mask was on, when Dean pretended to be happy and used the mask to hide any pain and fear, Sam could be happy.

And in that small way, Dean could almost be happy, too.

Dean sighed when he finally reached the kitchen. He grabbed a soda out of the fridge, took his cell phone off the counter, and headed toward the living room, collapsing on the couch. He put his cell phone down on the table next to him. He held onto his drink, but he didn't open it. Instead, he stared at the wall, and soon he had drifted off into his thoughts.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dean woke with a jerk. He looked out the window and noticed that at some point the sun had gone down. It was pitch dark in the room, and Dean looked at the clock on the TV to see what time it was.

Then he realized that his phone was ringing loudly on the table next to him. That must have been what had woken him up.

He reached over and picked it up, and he saw Sam's name glowing on the screen. He was probably on his way home and wanted to know if Dean wanted him to get anything for him before he left. Working in the grocery store had its advantages.

He flicked on the switch next to the couch, and the room lit up with a bright, warm light. Dean blinked as he opened up his phone and put it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Dean, you have to get out of the house. Now! Dad's coming. I don't know how he found us, but he's coming."

Dean felt his heart skip a few beats and then start pumping faster. His muscles tensed up, and he worked past the sudden dryness in his throat. "What do you-"

"I saw it, Dean. I had a vision. I was awake, and all of a sudden I felt like my head was going to explode, and then I saw it. Dad knows where we are, Dean. He's coming to get us. He's so angry, Dean. You have to get out of there now. Please!"

Dean heard the desperation in his brother's voice, and he didn't protest as he stood up from the couch. "All right, Sammy. I'm leaving. Where are you?"

"I'm heading home. I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Sam, listen to me. You know the drill. Turn around and head over to Gene's place. Right now."

"Gene's place" was really a code name for a bar that they had only been to once. It was located in New Jersey, and it was the place that, many years ago, when they had first moved away from their father, they had agreed upon as their meeting place. If something ever happened, if somehow Dad found them and they were not together, they were to met each other there. It was a place only they knew about.

Dean ran toward his room and threw on the first pair of pants he could find and went to his closet for the jar of money he kept hidden in there for this occasion.

"Dean, I'm not leaving without you."

"Yes you are, Sam," Dean replied, yanking the money out of the jar and stuffing it in his pocket.

"No, I'm not."

"Sam, this is not a discussion we are going to have," Dean said angrily.

"Dean-"

"Sammy, go! I'll meet you there. I promise."

"Dean…." Dean could hear the frustration and despair in his brother's voice as he headed back toward the living room.

Suddenly, Dean heard Sam scream in pain over the phone, and he stopped.

"Sam? Sam!"

All he heard was his brother gasping and moaning in pain in the background, and Dean felt helpless.

"Sammy, talk to me, dude. Say something. Sam!"

Finally, the horrible moaning stopped, and Dean heard Sam gasp loudly. He could practically feel Sam's rapid heartbeat pulsing through the phone in his hand.

"Dean, get out. Now!"

"I'm going, Sammy," he replied, walking into the living room.

"Going where?"

Dean's blood froze in his veins. He hadn't heard that voice in ten years.

"I said where are you going?" it asked again.

"Dean?" Dean heard his brother call out to him over the phone, but Dean had lost his voice.

Slowly, he lifted his head, and found himself face to face with his father.

"Long time no see," his father said, his voice dripping with malice, an evil grin spreading across his face.

"Dean! Dean!" Dean heard Sam call for him again, and he finally found his voice.

"It's okay, Sammy. I'm out the door. I'll meet you later. I promise."

He closed the phone, ignoring his brother crying out for him, and he knew that that was one promise he might not be able to keep.

---

Dean slowly put the phone in his pocket. He stared at his father and took in his appearance. He had never looked so horrible, and that was saying something. He looked like he hadn't bathed in years. His body was coated in dirt and dust and grime, and Dean could smell him from where he stood a few feet away. He looked like he'd been living in his clothes for years. He noticed his father swaying on his feet, and he knew he was drunk yet again.

He had to get out now, but his father was blocking the only exit out of the room.

Dean took a small step forward and to the side to gauge his father's footing, to see if he could slip past him, but as drunk as he was sure his father was, he was surprisingly steady, and he repositioned himself in front of Dean.

Dean didn't know if he could take him on. His father was still taller than he was, much heavier and stronger, and he knew that he was even stronger when he was drunk like this. He was stronger most especially when he had the desire to hurt someone in mind…

Dean decided to try talking to his father in order to get him unfocused.

"How'd you find us, Dad?" he asked, his voice filled with anger. He would not let his father see just how scared he really felt. If he did, he'd be done for.

"I did a bit of searching. Asked around, showed some pictures. Did a few…spells."

Dean was slightly surprised at this last bit.

"I even heard rumors about some woman in New York who'd been saved from the spirit of her dead boyfriend. I wasn't positive it was you, but I had a hunch. But does it really matter how I found you? The point is I'm here now. Daddy's home!" he said, spreading his arms out wide, and Dean cringed when he heard his father's deranged laugh.

"I've come to take you home, boy. To teach you a lesson. Both of you."

"You'll never get Sam," Dean said, his voice dripping with rage and determination. "Sam's not coming back here. You'll never find him."

"I'll find him eventually. I found you once, I can do it again."

His father took a step toward him, and Dean took one back.

"What's the matter son? Afraid of your old man?"

"No," Dean replied, trying hard to make it sound like he wasn't lying through his teeth.

"You should be," he said. And before Dean could blink or move or do anything, his father flew at him and punched him hard across the face. Dean stumbled backward and somehow managed to keep his footing. His Dad still moved fast for a drunk. He lifted his head. He was prepared to fight back now. Ever since that fight with the spirit, Dean had found himself more willing to do whatever it took to protect himself.

He drew back his hand to hit his father back, but before he could he got a second hit in the face, and the blow was so fierce the impact sent him flying against the wall. As his father started toward him, Dean quickly shook off the pain of the impact, and before his father could touch him again, he pulled back his fist and punched his father hard across the face.

He watched him stumble, a look of surprise on his face as he touched the spot where Dean had hit him. He laughed harshly.

"Looks like you finally learned to fight back after all."

His father reached for him, but Dean was quicker. He hit him in the face again, and when he stumbled backward on his swaying feet, Dean took the opportunity to kick his father in the legs as hard as he could, sending him tumbling to the ground.

And he ran for it.

He ran out of the living room and down the hallway.

He made it all the way to the kitchen before he felt his legs give way under him as a strong force hit him hard in the back. He went tumbling to the floor, grunting in pain from the sudden impact and the heavy weight above him. He struggled, trying to get out from under his father, but unfortunately, after all these years, his father was still stronger. Before he knew what was happening, he was on his back, his father pinning him down. He tried to buck him off, but his father was immobile. He was a giant, heavy, drunken stone, and Dean tried to hit him again, but his father caught his wrist and pinned his arms down.

Dean struggled for his life, struggled harder than he ever had before.

But his father was quick; too quick. The alcohol, while it made him tipsy, also made him strong…and angry.

Before Dean could stop him, his father had his hands around his throat.

"You can't run off and leave me this time," his father growled above him, and Dean beat on his father's arms; pulled on them, clawed at them, struggled beneath his father's weight as his vision started to blur.

"You'll never leave me again."

Dean gasped for air, and his father only held on tighter. Dean continued to fight him as best as he could, but he was slowing down and he knew it. His hits turned to smacks, his legs stopped kicking, and eventually his arms lost their strength. His hands fell from his father's arms, and he used what little strength he had left to move them to the hands around his throat. But he couldn't do anything. He had no energy left, no air. The room was spinning around him.

Then the room started fading. Dean lost the feeling in his hands. The room bleed together, and Dean gasped, but there was no air left.

Tears welled up in his eyes. This was it. This was the end.

He was going to die in this kitchen and there was no one to stop it.

Sam would be alone.

He had failed his little brother.

The room started to fade to black.

Then suddenly, the pressure on his neck and his body lifted. The hands left his neck, and Dean wasn't gone yet. He felt air enter his mouth and he gasped, and he nearly cried with joy as air rushed into his lungs. He vaguely heard someone calling his name beside him, someone touching him gently on the chest, running his hand through his hair. He still couldn't see; everything was too blurry.

And finally, the room cleared. Dean continued gasping, breathing in glorious air, his throat sore and aching but working.

Finally, he recognized the voice talking to him.

"Sam," he tried to choke out, but it came out as a meaningless gasp, and he felt his brother's hand tighten in his shirt, and he moaned in relief when he heard his brother's voice.

"I'm here, Dean. It's okay," and Dean could hear the tears in his voice. He turned toward his brother, taking in the scared look on his face, the haunted look in his eyes, a few tears leaking out of them.

"What…." He tried to talk, but his throat was still raw.

Sam knew what he wanted though.

"I didn't touch him, Dean. I came in and I saw him killing you and I just…I don't know what happened. I called your name and he looked up, and I was so angry, Dean, so upset. I saw it happening before, I had another vision. And it was playing out right in front of me. And then I just…something snapped, and Dad just kind of flew across the room and hit the wall. Dean…." Sam stopped, and Dean turned his head slowly away from his brother, and he saw his father slumped on the floor, a bright patch of blood growing on the wall behind him.

"I was so scared, Dean," and he turned his head back toward his brother. "I was so afraid you were gonna…I couldn't leave without you, Dean. I was going to come back here. And then I saw…and then I came faster. I didn't know if I'd get here in time. I thought…." Sam broke off, and Dean heard him gasp and turn his gaze to the floor, wiping at his eyes.

"I'm okay," Dean said, and he was glad when the words came out this time, a bit raspy and breathy, but there.

Sam looked back up at him and smiled.

They sat like that for a moment, Sam staring at his brother like he couldn't believe he was still there, and Dean breathing heavily, feeding his lungs with wonderful, life giving air.

Finally, Sam spoke.

"We gotta get out of here," he said, and the hand that was still on Dean's head moved away and pushed itself under his back toward his shoulder. The hand on his shirt moved toward his right hand, and Dean grasped it as firmly as he could in his own. He felt Sam lift him up into a sitting position, and he went with him, swaying slightly. Sam waited a second, then pulled on his hand, and Dean held on tight as Sam pulled him to his feet. He stumbled a bit, but Sam was there to catch him, putting his other hand on his shoulder and steadying him. Dean gasped a bit, his throat still hurting and his chest on fire from the sudden influx of air. He breathed heavily, staring at his brother.

Sam shouldn't have come back for him. He should have listened to him. But he hadn't. Dean wanted to yell at him, wanted to tell him off for coming back when he had told him to go.

But he couldn't. Sam wanted to save him, and he had.

And Dean was grateful.

"Thanks," he said, and he was happy when it came out stronger than before.

Sam smiled at him.

"You're welcome," he replied.

The brothers turned to the door and took a step toward it, Sam's hands still on Dean's shoulders.

Suddenly, Sam's hands left his shoulders, and Dean heard his brother moan in pain, panting, clutching his head.

"Sam? Sam!" Dean called, grabbing Sam's shoulder. "Talk to me, Sammy."

"No…no, not again…no…" Sam moaned, and his legs gave way underneath him. Dean tried to catch him but he was too late, and Dean crashed to the floor next to Sam. Sam continued to clutch at his head, sitting on his knees and rocking slowly back and forth.

"Sam, come on dude, talk to me," Dean said, gripping his shoulders tighter.

Suddenly, Sam's eyes flew open, and Dean was horrified at the fear he saw in them.

"Run," Sam gasped, still clutching his head and wincing.

Dean didn't even have time to ask him what he was talking about.

"You're not running away anymore."

Dean felt his heart stop for the dozenth time that day. He turned slowly toward the voice, and he saw his father standing on the other side of the room. He was holding a gun, and it was pointed right at Sam's chest.

"No more running," his father repeated.

Dean knew he didn't have enough time to get the gun from his father before he fired it. He was too far away, and if he left Sam's side…

Dean looked quickly at Sam, and he made a decision. The same decision he had made all his life.

He got off his feet, and he stood up in front of Sam, who was still on the ground, moaning in pain.

He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. His father knew what he was doing. He had done this all his life.

Dean would not let Sam get hurt. Ever.

He would die first.

Dean stood his ground, not flinching, feeling not an ounce of fear. All he felt was love, an overwhelming feeling that he was doing the right thing, and a feeling of guilt at the thought that he would be leaving Sam alone.

But he would never regret what he was doing.

"Fine," his father growled at him, and he cocked the gun. "You can't protect your brother anymore. Not if you're dead."

The next few seconds passed in a blur, yet they felt like an eternity. One minute Dean was facing down his father and the gun. The next, he was on the floor on his hands and knees.

But there was no pain. No bleeding hole in his body.

Dean looked up, and the world was moving in slow motion. He saw his father with a smoking gun in his hand, a smile plastered on his face.

Dean turned toward where he had been standing moments ago, and the world fell out from under his feet.

Sam was leaning against the wall, gazing at a gaping hole in his chest that was slowly oozing blood. Dean's mouth fell open, and he cried out in horror and pain and agony.

Sam turned to him and smiled before he crashed to the floor.

Suddenly, the world was moving faster. Too fast. He turned toward his father and got to his feet. His father cocked the gun, and by the time he had it pointed at him, Dean was on top of him. He grabbed the gun, but his father was strong and he held on to it. Dean pulled hard, fighting his father for the gun.

Things blurred together again.

They were on the floor.

He was pinning his father to the ground.

And for the first time in his life, Dean was stronger than his father. Hatred and rage and anger and fear and sadness and pain warred through him, and he twisted his father's wrist. The gun turned away from him toward his father's chest, and in the struggle, the gun went off.

He saw his father's eyes open wide, a look of surprise in them.

And then they closed. Dean felt his father go limp underneath him, his eyes rolling back in his head. Dean kneeled on top of him, panting, and he reached out a shaking hand to feel his neck for a pulse.

He was dead.

Dean stared at his father's body, his mind unable to wrap itself around what had just happened.

"Dean…."

Dean's head shot up.

"Sammy," he moaned, his voice breaking. Sam was lying on the floor where he had fallen, clutching his bleeding chest, watching him from across the room.

Dean got up quickly and was at his brother's side in an instant.

"Sam…oh god….Sam…." Dean stared at his brother, at the gaping hole in his chest, and the blood slowly pouring from his wound.

"Dean…I saved you," Sam said, smiling softly.

"Yeah, you did, Sammy. You did," Dean said, and he didn't fight the tears he felt rising in his eyes. He put one hand on Sam's chest, pushing away Sam's hand and replacing it with his own, pressing down hard on the wound. Sam moaned in pain, and Dean whispered words of comfort, telling him it was going to be okay. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, flipping it open and dialing 911. He told the dispatcher where they were, what had happened, and he could hardly pay attention as she told him she was sending someone and they'd be there soon. He missed her tell him to stay on the line. At the words "be there soon," Dean closed the phone and dropped it.

His eyes hadn't left Sam's during the entire conversation.

Sam lay there and looked at him, his breathing slow, his chest rising slowly and shakily, and Dean could practically hear the blood gurgling in his throat it was so quiet in the room.

"Sammy, hang in there buddy, it's gonna be okay."

"Dean…Dad's…."

"He's dead. I…I shot him, Sam."

Sam didn't respond, but Dean saw him swallow deeply and look away for a second before turning his gaze back to him, and Dean knew he had at least heard him.

"Come on, Sam," Dean said, and he took his now free hand and pressed it over the one already on Sam's chest, pressing down harder, and he nearly cried out when he felt the blood continue to pour out under his hand despite his efforts.

The room got quiet again. Dean didn't know what to say. His brother was dying. Dean had spent his whole life trying to protect him, and he had failed.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Dean finally bit out, his eyes welling with tears. "I'm sorry. I wanted to protect you. I'm the big brother, I'm supposed to protect you, Sam. I-"

"Dean…you did. You did. But…it was my turn to protect _you_."

"Sammy…" Dean said, his voice breaking. "You shouldn't have…you shouldn't…you saw it didn't you? You had a vision?"

Dean saw Sam struggle to answer him, and he quickly made him stop. "It's okay, don't talk, Sam. Save your strength."

Sam stopped trying to answer, and Dean saw his chest hitch a couple of times, and he tried hard not to cry as Sam struggled. The hitching finally stopped, and Sam could breath again, but he was breathing slower than before, and Dean saw a small trail of blood start to ooze out of the corner of Sam's mouth.

"Oh god," Dean whispered. "Sam…." He was at a loss. There was so much he wanted to tell Sam; so much he wanted to do for him. But he couldn't do anything. He couldn't think, he'd forgotten how to talk.

"Dean." Sam struggled to talk, and Dean took his left hand off of his right, and he reached across Sam and grabbed his hand, holding onto it tightly. He squeezed, and he felt relieved when Sam squeezed back.

"It's okay, Sam, I know."

"I…I saw it," Sam said, slowly, and Dean could see it was taking effort for him to speak. "I…I couldn't let it happen. Not after…everything. You…protected me all my life. It was my turn," Sam said, and Dean moaned when he saw Sam arch his head back. Blood started pouring faster out of his mouth, his body started to shake, and his hand tensed in Dean's.

"Come on, Sam. Fight it. You can do it, Sammy. I know you, you're strong. You're better than this. You shouldn't have to die this way. I'm not gonna let you. It wasn't supposed to be you, Sam."

Sam arched his head back again, and his hand loosened. But it loosened too much. And the shaking didn't stop. Sam's breathing was even shallower.

"Dean…you're my brother. I'd die for you. I…."

"Sam, don't," Dean said, shaking his head as a few tears finally fell down his cheeks.

"I love you," Sam said, and he continued to look at Dean, his gaze burning through Dean's eyes, and Sam gripped his hand slightly. Dean could feel the love and sadness in Sam's eyes and his touch, and Dean gripped Sam's hand hard, trying to convey to Sam how much he loved him back.

He smiled around his tears, not letting go of his tight hold on Sam's hand. "I love you, too, Sammy. You know I do. Always."

A small smile spread over Sam's face, and Dean saw tears falling from his eyes as he blinked them slowly.

"Thank you," Sam said. "For everything. You've…you've always been there for me."

"And I'll _always _be there. You're gonna make it through this, Sam. I know you are. I'm just sorry I couldn't protect you, Sam. I'm sorry-"

"Don't…don't blame yourself," Sam said slowly, and Dean noticed the fierceness in his voice. "Don't-"

Sam was cut off as he started coughing loudly and harshly. Dean held Sam's hand tighter, tightening his hold on Sam's chest, and he whispered words of nothing to him, trying to coax him through the coughing spell, praying that this wasn't it. This couldn't be the end.

Finally, Sam stopped coughing. More blood poured out of his mouth.

"Dean!" Sam gasped out suddenly.

"It's okay, Sammy. I'm right here."

"Promise…promise me…you won't…blame yourself. Please…."

"Sam-"

"Promise me," Sam practically whimpered as he was cut off by a moan of pain.

"I promise, Sam. I promise. Stay with me, dude. I can hear the sirens. They're coming. They're almost here."

He squeezed Sam's hand and Sam squeezed it back, and Dean was disheartened at how he could barely feel the pressure. He could hear the ambulances coming down the street. They were so close.

"Sam…remember when I promised you we'd get away? It's real now. We can be a family. Just you and me."

"We've always been a family, Dean," Sam said quietly, his body shaking slightly. "Always."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, realizing that he was right. He was always right. "You're right. Sam…Sam, you gotta stay with me okay? The ambulances are here. They'll be here any second."

"I'm sorry." Sam said it so quietly that Dean could barely hear him, but he did, and suddenly it was the loudest thing he had ever heard in his life.

"Sam?" Dean asked, and he watched Sam's eyes close, his breathing slowing to almost nothing. "Sam!" Dean yelled, gripping his hand, willing him to come back. "Sam!"

Sam's eyes opened slowly.

"Tell me…tell me about Mom," Sam said, and Dean practically whimpered at the sad begging sound of his brother's voice.

He could hear a door closing outside the window, the sirens blaring loudly.

"Mom loved you, Sam. She loved you so much. Every night before you went to bed, she used to kiss you on the forehead. She taught me how to do it once, and I did it with her every night after that. She used to sing to you. She…"

Dean told him what he remembered about their mother; all the good things he could remember about their life when they were young.

He heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and he looked toward the door.

"They're here, Sam," he told his brother, and he looked back down at him. "Sam?"

Sam's eyes were closed.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, and he squeezed his hand, willing him to squeeze back.

He didn't.

"Sam! Don't do this to me, Sam! Sam! Don't you fucking die on me, Sammy. Sam!"

The world slowed down around him. He vaguely heard the door open, felt hands grab his shoulders and pull him away from his brother. He struggled with the hands on him, screaming for Sam, yelling at him, telling him that he wasn't allowed to die, begging him not to die.

He screamed at the world; screamed at God; screamed at his father, the people around him, anyone, and no one.

The last thing he remembered was calling out his little brother's name before the world faded to black.

_**TBC...**_

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm sorry if that was the mushiest BS you've ever read in your life. I couldn't help it. Anyone who read my last story will know that I just can't go without the mush.

Hope you enjoyed it, don't forget to review, and expect the epilogue up in (hopefully) a few days. :)


	9. More than Enough

**A Little More Tequila, A Little Less Demon Hunting**

– – **Epilogue – –**

_More than Enough_

_One year later…_

Dean sighed and closed his eyes. He'd been sitting in his car for awhile now, drumming his fingers lightly on the steering wheel and staring off into space.

He opened his eyes and looked at his watch, wondering how long he had been sitting there in the car, and he sighed again and sank down further in his seat. He took his hand off the wheel and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He continued to stare out the windshield, squinting his eyes against the bright, harsh glare of the mid-afternoon sun.

It had been one year. One whole year since that horrible night. One long year since his father had come barreling back into his life after a decade's glorious absence, only to tear his world out from under him yet again. One year since Dean had nearly lost his life to his father's hands.

One year since he had killed his father.

One year since he had watched his little brother slowly bleed to death on the kitchen floor.

Dean stopped staring out the window, and he closed his eyes, his mind wandering into visions of that night. The fear wrought by Sam's phone call, telling him to leave…the life being choked out of him…his brother throwing their father across the room without touching him…Sam's vision…his father raising a gun toward Sam…standing up in front of Sam to protect him one final time…shooting his father…holding Sam's bleeding body close as his brother faded away on the floor, leaving him alone in the world.…

Suddenly, Dean shot up in his seat with a shout, his eyes flinging open as a loud honking noise filled the car. His head crashed into the ceiling, and he cursed loudly, rubbing at it.

Beside him, Sam laughed.

"Oh man, you should have seen your face, Dean," Sam said, grinning widely as he shook his head, tears of laughter lighting up his eyes.

Dean groaned, rubbing at his sore head. "Jesus, Sam, you scared me to death," he said, and despite the pain in his head and the embarrassment he felt at being caught of guard by his little brother's joke, he couldn't help the smile that lit up his face.

"Oh, poor baby," Sam said with a mock look of sadness. "Poor Deanie scared of a little noise?" he asked in a babyish voice, and Dean's smile grew into a grin as he let go of his head and smacked his brother lightly on the arm.

"Owww," Sam whined in mock pain. "Jerk," he said playfully, rubbing at his arm.

"Yeah well, you deserve it for trying to scare me like that," Dean said, laughing lightly at the moment. "I'll get you back, just you wait," he said with a twinkle in his eye.

Sam just laughed. "I got the food," he said, holding up a plastic bag bulging with snacks.

"'Bout time," Dean said, grabbing the bag out of Sam's hands. "Please tell me you got…oh thank god," he moaned, and he pulled out a giant bag of Peanut M&M's. "You're my hero, Sam," he said, batting his ridiculously long eyelashes at his brother playfully.

Sam shook his head, rolling his eyes. "You're ridiculous, Dean," Sam said, smiling.

"Yeah, you know you love me, Sammy," Dean said, and he reached out and ruffled Sam's hair, making the already messy locks even messier. Sam swatted at his hand, and Dean laughed, breaking open the bag, taking a handful of M&M's, and stuffing a few in his mouth.

Sam just smiled and shook his head again. "It's Sam," he said, correcting his brother for the millionth time.

"Yeah, I know, Sammy," Dean said around the mouthful of peanuty chocolate mess in his mouth.

"Whatever, dude," Sam said, rolling his eyes and reaching into the bag for some pretzels. "Ready to hit the road?"

"You bet," Dean replied, finally swallowing the giant mess in his mouth. He popped a few more M&M's in, started the car, pulled out of the gas station, and headed toward the interstate.

Dean stole a quick glance at his brother. Sam munched on his pretzels next to him, gazing out the window and watching the scenery, or lack thereof, roll by. Dean smiled and turned his gaze back to the road.

Sam hadn't died that day. He had come horribly close to it though…too close. The doctors had called it a miracle…a strong will to live…love. Dean didn't know what to call it, but he had been eternally grateful for it.

While Sam was in the hospital recovering, the police had asked him about what had happened. Dean told them only about what had happened that night. He told them nothing about the long, hard past they had shared with their father. He didn't feel it was their business.

The police had visited their father's house. He had been living in the same place that Sam and Dean had left him. The police discovered all kinds of weird things in the house: newspaper clippings, diaries his father had written discussing his desire to find his children and make them pay, weird books, and jars filled with strange powders, animal entrails, and a variety of other oddities.

And a giant stockpile of every kind of alcohol known to man.

The autopsy had shown that their father's blood alcohol concentration had been incredibly high, and that his liver was so damaged it was a wonder he had lived so long.

Dean knew it was nothing but pure spite and rage that had kept their father alive.

The police had called it attempted murder, and Dean had been let off on self-defense.

Sam had healed in time, and Dean had brought him home to their apartment. A few nights later, he had burst into Dean's room in the middle of the night, panting heavily and telling his brother that a woman was in danger. Dean had listened to Sam tell him about the attack he had seen, and Dean had promised that he would help her. Sam had wanted to help, but Dean had convinced him to stay by promising that, if Sam was more healed when the next vision came, Dean would let him help.

That night Dean shot a shapeshifter with a silver bullet in a back alleyway in the Bronx. It had been an easy kill. He had gotten there before the shapeshifter, looking like her boyfriend, had been able to attack her. He had taken her home to her real boyfriend, and he had explained everything to her. They had wanted to thank him, but Dean had insisted he didn't need anything. He only asked that they not tell anyone about what they had seen or how they had been saved by a mysterious stranger.

Dean went home to Sam and told him what had happened, and Sam had been relieved that it had been an easy job.

The next time Sam had a vision, a month later, Dean had let him come. After the incident, he was more afraid than ever for Sam's life. But the incident had also helped him realize something. He realized that he had been wrong about what he wanted most for Sam. He realized that he didn't want Sam to be safe so much as he wanted him to be _happy_. And if Sam felt happier and less afraid helping him hunt, then Dean didn't want to stop him. Keeping Sam happy and unafraid and protected was his job; a job he wanted more than any other to keep for a long time.

They had continued to live their lives the way they had before their father showed up. Dean went back to the garage, and Sam went back to school and work. He kept working hard toward his pre-law degree, and he met a girl named Lauren.

The visions and the hunting were the only real difference. Sam had more and more visions as time went on, and the two of them did their best to help those people.

They hadn't been able to save them all. They had arrived too late to save a mother from dying in a fire, leaving behind her husband and an infant daughter. They had watched from a distance as the man cradled his daughter close to him outside of his apartment, staring up at the burning building with tears in his eyes. They found out the next day about the mother they had been unable to save.

They had both felt guilty about the loss, Sam more so than Dean. Dean hated to see his brother so sad and guilt ridden, and he had tried to convince Sam that they couldn't save everybody. Sam had asked why he had even had the vision if he couldn't have done anything about it. Dean didn't know the answer, but he reassured his brother that the visions were a gift, and that they were doing their best to accept it, and that was all that anyone could expect. He wasn't entirely sure he believed even himself, but Sam had finally seemed convinced, and in time he had moved on.

Then one day at work, Dean had heard his boss telling someone about the rumors spreading around the city. Rumors about these two guys who went around and saved people from unexplainable things at the last possible moment. Dean cringed inwardly, knowing that someone hadn't been able to keep quiet. Dean went home that day, and he told Sam about it. Sam had seemed as upset by the news as him. They didn't want to be found out. They didn't want the responsibility and the fame and the attention that came from being recognized as heroes. They walked around on pins and needles for weeks.

Then one day, a man had appeared at the garage where Dean worked. And Dean recognized him as a man he once saved from a poltergeist. Dean had prayed that the man would keep quiet.

But he hadn't. "Oh my god. Aren't you the guy…."

Dean had left work early that day to weird stares from his co-workers, people calling after him, asking him questions. Dean had jumped in his car and driven back home as fast as he could. Thankfully, Sam had been there, and the two of them had agreed it was time to leave. Dean had felt bad about Sam having to leave Lauren. He had really seemed to like the girl. But they both agreed it was for the best.

So they had piled what they could as quickly as they could into Dean's Impala (a '67 Chevy; he had finally been able to purchase his dream car thanks to some connections at work). They had left New York behind and headed west, not really knowing where they were going.

When they were too tired to drive anymore, they had gotten a room in a small rundown hotel, reminiscent of the one they had stayed in thousands of years ago when Dean was only four. They had decided to head out and pay Michael a visit before continuing west, maybe to California.

Dean had called Michael from the hotel that night and told him that he and Sam were going to pay him a visit. Michael had seemed thrilled at the prospect of seeing them again. They had talked a lot over the years, but they hadn't seen him in a decade, and Dean was curious about the woman Michael was going to marry, while Michael was curious about just how freakishly tall Sam had finally gotten.

Dean smiled as he thought of his brother, and he pulled himself out of his thoughts and turned to find Sam fast asleep next to him, breathing gently, a content look on his face.

Dean turned his gaze back toward the road and kept driving.

He didn't know where they were headed. Didn't know where they would live. Didn't know what would happen to them next or when Sam might have another vision.

He didn't know where life would take them.

But they weren't afraid anymore.

They had each other, just as they always had.

And it was more than enough.

**_THE END_**

_-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**AN: **Well that's it guys. It's been a blast. I will admit that for like ten minutes I was contemplating killing Sam off and making Dean a wreck, but I think my love for Dean angst has a limit, and Sam dying is it. I just couldn't do that to him after all the crap he put up with in his life.

I'm so grateful for all the great reviews you guys have left me. You guys are amazing, and you help make it worth it. I hope I did the ending justice and that everything I wanted to say came across (it's hard to tell if what I want to have come across actually does when I already _know_ what it is I want to get across).

Thanks again guys, hope you enjoyed this little journey, and don't forget to leave me one final review before you leave. :D


End file.
